Lord Byron Quotes
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So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.
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Never to talk to ones self is a form of hypocrisy.
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They used to say that knowledge is power. I used to think so, but I know now they mean money.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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What should I have known or written had I been a quiet, mercantile politician or a lord in waiting? A man must travel, and turmoil, or there is no existence.
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War, war is still the cry,-"war even to the knife!"
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A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
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I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
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Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
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Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.
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A material resurrection seems strange and even absurd except for purposes of punishment, and all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must be morally wrong, and when the World is at an end, what moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer?
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To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
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Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
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Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?
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Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss and kiss for ever; E'en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour: Could I desist? -ah! never-never.
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'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give, No hollow aid; alone - man with God must strive.
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O thou beautiful And unimaginable ether! and Ye multiplying masses of increased And still increasing lights! what are ye? what Is this blue wilderness of interminable Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden? Is your course measur'd for ye? Or do ye Sweep on in your unbounded revelry Through an aerial universe of endless Expansion,--at which my soul aches to think,-- Intoxicated with eternity.
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Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others.
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I awoke one day to find myself famous.
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One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
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There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
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I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
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We of the craft are all crazy.
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The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.