Lord Byron Quotes
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What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
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Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
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Though the day of my Destiny's over,And the star of my Fate hath declined,Thy soft heart refused to discoverThe faults which so many could find.
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The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.
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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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If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.
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The best of prophets of the future is the past.
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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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He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.
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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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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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My boat is on the shore,And my bark is on the sea;But, before I go, Tom Moore.Here's a double health to thee!
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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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Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
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Cervantes smiled Spain's chivalry away.
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There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.
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And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautifulThat God alone was to be seen in heaven.
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Who killed John Keats?'I,' says the Quarterly,So savage and Tartarly;''Twas one of my feats.'
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Think not I am what I appear.
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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August.
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A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure-critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote With just enough learning to misquote.
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I awoke one morning and found myself famous.
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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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Smiles form the channels of a future tear.