Lord Byron Quotes
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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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War, war is still the cry,-"war even to the knife!"
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So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.
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Man's love is of man's life a part; it is a woman's whole existence. In her first passion, a woman loves her lover, in all the others all she loves is love.
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He who is only just is cruel; who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?
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A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
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What a strange thing is man! And what a stranger is woman.
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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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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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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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Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
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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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Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?
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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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We of the craft are all crazy.
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The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.
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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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And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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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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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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Land of lost gods and godlike men.
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'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky; If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, I can't help thinking puberty assisted.
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Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.