Then stirs the feeling infinite, s — George Gordon Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
Then stirs the feeling infinite, s — George Gordon Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
Then stirs the feeling infinite, s — George Gordon Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
Then stirs the feeling infinite, s — George Gordon Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
Then stirs the feeling infinite, s — George Gordon Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
Download Customize

Then stirs the feeling infinite, s

— George Gordon Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage
Pin Share Tweet Telegram
Topics
loneliness solitude

More “Loneliness” Quotes

…I’ve come to realize that the only truths that matter to me are the ones I don’t, and can’t, understand. What’s mysteri — Donna Tartt, The Goldfinch
in the end, everyone can understand themselves only. You are the only one to which you never have to explain what you me — Renate Dorrestein, Buitenstaanders
She wondered what life would be like if there was always an arm around her shoulder and if there was a back that welcome — Deirdre Riordan Hall, In the Desert
Nothing has the power to remind you how alone you are like walking through a conglomeration of empty skyscrapers. — Matthew Tysz, The Last City of America
The animals feel that this urgency is mutual. Their own suffering has made them aware of human suffering. More frequent — Linda Bender, Animal Wisdom: Learning from the Spiritual Lives of Animals
The return of solitude was not quite as Dina expected it to be. These many years I made a virtue of inescapable reality, — Rohinton Mistry, A Fine Balance
Loneliness is not lack of company. Loneliness is lack of purpose. — Guillermo Maldonado
This is just a nigger talkin', an' a busted-back nigger. So it don't mean nothing, see? You couldn't remember it anyways — John Steinbeck, Of Mice and Men
How lonely I was, even when I was with him. How it felt, him not making love to me, being affectionate, making me feel d — Kristen Ashley, The Gamble
I don't know what I'm doing in Santa Teresa," Amalfitano said to himself after he'd been living in the city for a week." — Roberto Bolaño, 2666
Could my proud loneliness be merely an illusion? — Nicola Lecca, Ritratto notturno
Frankie," she said softly, "do you know what my idea of heaven is? A place where the windows are always clean, and the p — Helen Hudson, The Listener and Other Stories