Lord Byron Quotes
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For the sword outwears its sheath,And the soul wears out the breast,And the heart must pause to breathe,And love itself have rest.
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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast; Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so.
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I only know we loved in vain;I only feel - farewell! farewell!
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Man is a carnivorous production, And must have meals, at least one meal a day; He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey; Although his anatomical construction Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, Your laboring people think beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton better for digestion.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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Mont Blanc is the Monarch of mountains;They crowned him long ago,On a throne of rocks - in a robe of clouds –With a Diadem of Snow.
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The basis of your religion is injustice. The Son of God the pure, the immaculate, the innocent, is sacrificed for the guilty. This proves his heroism, but no more does away with man's sin than a school boy's volunteering to be flogged for another would exculpate a dunce from negligence.
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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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By thy cold breast and serpent smile,By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile,By that most seeming virtuous eye,By thy shut soul's hypocrisy;By the perfection of thine artWhich pass'd for human thine own heart;By thy delight in others' pain,And by thy brotherhood of Cain,I call upon thee! and compelThyself to be thy proper Hell!
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She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister.
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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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Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
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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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Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell!
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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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The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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And both were young, and one was beautiful.
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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
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And hold up to the sun my little taper.
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Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.