Lord Byron Quotes
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There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres.
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Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel.
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The dust we tread upon was once alive.
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The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do.
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What opposite discoveries we have seen! (Signs of true genius, and of empty pockets.) One makes new noses, one a guillotine, One breaks your bones, one sets them in their sockets; But vaccination certainly has been A kind antithesis to Congreve's rockets.
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Oh! snatched away in beauty's bloom, On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; But on thy turf shall roses rear Their leaves, the earliest of the year.
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Here's a sigh to those who love me,And a smile to those who hate:And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate.
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The love where Death has set his seal,Nor age can chill, nor rival steal,Nor falsehood disavow.
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Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filtered through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull.
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Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the mostMust mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth,The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.
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The heart will break, but broken live on.
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Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.
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What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
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And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
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Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life, The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!
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That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane.
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What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset; And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.
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Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?
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The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.
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The busy have no time for tears.
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Farewell! For in that word, that fatal word,-howe'erWe promise, hope, believe,-there breathes despair.
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She was his life,The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all.
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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.
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And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautifulThat God alone was to be seen in heaven.