Lord Byron Quotes
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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.
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I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.
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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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I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse - borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne - misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be - let it end.
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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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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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Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine – A sad, sour sober beverage – by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor Down to a very homely household savor.
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Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!
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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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Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones,Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones.
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He seemsTo have seen better days, as who has notWho has seen yesterday?
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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
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The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
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Yet in my lineaments they traceSome features of my father's face.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
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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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Why do they call me misanthrope? Because They hate me, not I them.
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The very best of vineyards is the cellar.
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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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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.