Lord Byron Quotes
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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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The dust we tread upon was once alive.
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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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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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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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The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
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It would be difficult, perhaps, to find the annals of a nation less stained with crimes than those of the Armenians, whose virtues have been those of peace, and their vices those of compulsion. But whatever may have been their destiny - and it has been bitter - whatever it may be in future, their country must ever be one of the most interesting on the globe.
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Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
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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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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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Farewell! For in that word, that fatal word,-howe'erWe promise, hope, believe,-there breathes despair.
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Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away.
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Who killed John Keats?'I,' says the Quarterly,So savage and Tartarly;''Twas one of my feats.'
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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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She was his life,The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all.
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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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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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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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The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.
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If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.
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In secret we metIn silence I grieve,That thy heart could forget,Thy spirit deceive.If I should meet theeAfter long years,How should I greet thee?With silence and tears.
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Self praise is no praise at all.
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We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most; why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?
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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.