It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a ''grand peut-''tre'' --but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it --the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal. (Lord Byron)
For, though thy long dark lashes low depending, The soul of melancholy Gentleness Gleams like a Seraph from the sky descending, Above all pain, yet pitying all distress; At once such majesty with sweetness blending, I worship more, but cannot love thee less. (Lord Byron, "")
An old man With an old soul, and both extremely blind. (Lord Byron)
They cannot part---those Souls are One. (Lord Byron, "")
The sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest. (Lord Byron)
One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I'll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other. (Lord Byron)