Lord Byron Quotes
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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.
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I have simplified my politics into an utter detestation of all existing governments; and, as it is the shortest and most agreeable and summary feeling imaginable, the first moment of an universal republic would convert me into an advocate for single and uncontradicted despotism. The fact is, riches are power, and poverty is slavery all over the earth, and one sort of establishment is no better, nor worse, for a people than another.
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Yet in my lineaments they traceSome features of my father's face.
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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A drop of ink may make a million think.
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The heart ran o'erWith silent worship of the great of old! The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still ruleOur spirits from their urns.
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Romances I ne'er read like those I have seen.
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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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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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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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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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Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
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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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The cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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A sleep without dreams, after a rough day of toil, is what we covet most; and yet How clay shrinks back from more quiescent clay! The very Suicide that pays his debt at once without installments (an old way of paying debts, which creditors regret) Lets out impatiently his rushing breath, less from disgust of life than dread of death.
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I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.
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When all of genius which can perish dies.
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Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
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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!