Lord Byron Quotes
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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Hands promiscuously applied,Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side.
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I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand; I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.
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In the desert a fountain is springing,In the wide waste there still is a tree,And a bird in the solitude singing,Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
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I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.
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And hold up to the sun my little taper.
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Jack was embarrassed - never hero more,And as he knew not what to say, he swore.
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Lovers may be and indeed generally are enemies, but they never can be friends, because there must always be a spice of jealousy and a something of Self in all their speculations.
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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
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From my youth upwardsMy spirit walk'd not with the souls of men,Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes;The thirst of their ambition was not mine,The aim of their existence was not mine;My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powersMade me a stranger.
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Sublime tobacco! which from east to westCheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest.
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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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I awoke one morning and found myself famous.
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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 learned the language of another world.
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Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice-- The weakness and the wickedness of luxury-- The negligence--the apathy--the evils Of sensual sloth--produces ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing.
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Here's a sigh to those who love me,And a smile to those who hate:And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate.
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I only know we loved in vain;I only feel - farewell! farewell!
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A woman should never be seen eating or drinking, unless it be lobster salad and Champagne, the only true feminine and becoming viands.
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But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfitTo sink or soar.
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Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
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My mother Earth!And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains,Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye.And thou, the bright eye of the universe,That openest over all, and unto allArt a delight-thou shin'st not on my heart.
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And both were young, and one was beautiful.