Lord Byron Quotes
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Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.
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I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
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But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfitTo sink or soar.
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The very best of vineyards is the cellar.
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So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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He left a corsair's name to other times,Linked with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.
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I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour; my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England; if false, England was unfit for me.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels; make air instead of sea voyages; and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast.
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So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
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And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.
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The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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The image of Eternity--the throne Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
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Oh, Amos Cottle! Phœbus! what a name!
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For a man to become a poet, he must be in love, or miserable.
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I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.
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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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Physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem; but although we sneer - In health - when ill we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer.
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But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.