Lord Byron Quotes
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When all of genius which can perish dies.
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
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I am not now That which I have been.
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Hark! to the hurried question of despair: 'Where is my child?'-an echo answers, 'Where?'
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In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.
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'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow,And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low: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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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil.
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And Mocha's berry, from Arabia pure, In small fine china cups, came in at last. Gold cups of filigree, made to secure the hand from burning, underneath them place. Cloves, cinnamon and saffron, too, were boiled Up with the coffee, which, I think, they spoiled.
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Farewell! if ever fondest prayerFor other's weal avail'd on high,Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
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Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; the best of life is but intoxication.
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'Tis pleasure, sure, to see one's name in print;A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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For most men (till by losing rendered sager)Will back their own opinions by a wager.
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Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?It doth; but actions are our epochs: mineHave made my days and nights imperishableEndless, and all alike, as sands on the shoreInnumerable atoms; and one desertBarren and cold, on which the wild waves break,But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks,Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.
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He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.
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Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story;The days of our youth are the days of our glory;And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twentyAre worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
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Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires,And decorate the verse herself inspires:This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,-Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.
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She was a form of life and lightThat seen, became a part of sight, And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye, The morning-star of memory! Yes, love indeed is light from heaven; A spark of that immortal fireWith angels shared, by Alla given, To lift from earth our low desire.
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As soon seek roses in December, ice in June, Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff Believe a woman or an epitaph Or any other thing that’s false Before you trust in critics.
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By all that's good and glorious.