Lord Byron Quotes
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Eternity forbids thee to forget.
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All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
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Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.
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A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
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How sweet and soothing is this hour of calm! I thank thee, night! for thou has chased away these horrid bodements which, amidst the throng, I could not dissipate; and with the blessing of thy benign and quiet influence now will I to my couch, although to rest is almost wronging such a night as this.
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Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!
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If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to himself...that a tiger is an optical illusion--well, he will find out he is wrong. The tiger will himself intervene in the discussion, in a manner which will be in every sense conclusive.
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The dew of compassion is a tear.
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The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still the master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth, While man, vain insect hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.
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In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.
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As the liberty lads o'er the sea Bought their freedom, and cheaply, with blood, So we, boys, we Shall die fighting or live free, And down with all kings but King Ludd!
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I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
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Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes: Pique her and soothe in turn-soon Passion crowns thy hopes.
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Dreading that climax of all human ills the inflammation of his weekly bills.
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A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
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Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
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The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!
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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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From the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with light his blended colors glow. . . . . The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.
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He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.
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Every day confirms my opinion on the superiority of a vicious life, and if Virtue is not its own reward, I don't know any other stipend annexed to it.
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Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.