Lord Byron Quotes
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I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do anything further for himself.
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None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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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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Armenian is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.
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A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
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I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.
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Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.
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Self-love for ever creeps out, like a snake, to sting anything which happens to stumble upon it.
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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.
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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
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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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Come what may, I have been blest.
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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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Time strips our illusions of their hue, And one by one in turn, some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.
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Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year.
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I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.
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And lovelier things have mercy shownTo every failing but their own,And every woe a tear can claimExcept an erring sister's shame.
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Patience! Hence-that word was madeFor brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey;Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,-I am not of thine order.
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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - but pages might be filled up, as vainly as before, with the sad usage of all sorts of sages, who in his life-time, each was deemed a bore! The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages.
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The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.
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The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
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I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other's natural burden Of mortal misery.