So do the dark in soul expire, Or live like scorpion girt by fire; So writhes the mind remorse hath riven, Unfit for earth, undoom'd for heaven, Darkness above, despair beneath, Around it flame, within it death.
Lord ByronMy hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.
Lord ByronWhat deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
Lord Byron