Lord Byron Quotes
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It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
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We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most; why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtleAre emblems of deeds that are done in their clime?Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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Smiles form the channels of a future tear.
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The busy have no time for tears.
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I think the worst woman that ever existed would have made a man of very passable reputation -- they are all better than us and their faults such as they are must originate with ourselves.
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Egeria! sweet creation of some heart Which found no mortal resting-place so fair As thine ideal breast.
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Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?
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That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane.
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A woman being never at a loss... the devil always sticks by them.
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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August.
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Think not I am what I appear.
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The heart will break, but broken live on.
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And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
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There be none of Beauty's daughtersWith a magic like thee;And like music on the watersIs thy sweet voice to me.
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And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!
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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the music breathing from her face, 19The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,- And oh, that eye was in itself a soul!
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Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
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The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the Night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn'd the language of another world.
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Who then will explain the explanation?
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Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred.
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A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town.
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Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
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But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.