Lord Byron Quotes
-
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.
-
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean.
-
I am not now That which I have been.
-
A drop of ink may make a million think.
-
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
-
So, we'll go no more a rovingSo late into the night,Though the heart be still as loving,And the moon be still as bright.
-
The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name.
-
Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
-
But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
-
Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.
-
Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
-
Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
-
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.
-
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.
-
Heaven gives its favourites-early death.
-
None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
-
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.
-
Be warm, be pure, be amorous, but be chaste.
-
Yet in my lineaments they traceSome features of my father's face.
-
Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones,Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones.
-
Oh, Amos Cottle! Phœbus! what a name!
-
Who hath not proved how feebly words essayTo fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray? Who doth not feel, until his failing sightFaints into dimness with its own delight, His changing cheek, his sinking heart, confessThe might, the majesty of loveliness?
-
Oh, God! it is a fearful thingTo see the human soul take wingIn any shape, in any mood.
-
So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!