Lord Byron Quotes
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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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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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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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For freedom's battle, once begun,Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,Though baffled oft, is ever won.
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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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Farewell! For in that word, that fatal word,-howe'erWe promise, hope, believe,-there breathes despair.
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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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She was his life,The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all.
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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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Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away.
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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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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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The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.
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Self praise is no praise at all.
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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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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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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtleAre emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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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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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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Smiles form the channels of a future tear.