Lord Byron Quotes
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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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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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Oh, nature's noblest gift, my grey goose quill, Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from the parent bird to form a pen, That mighty instrument of little men.
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Sublime tobacco! which from east to westCheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest.
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Farewell! if ever fondest prayerFor other's weal avail'd on high,Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
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This is the age of oddities let loose.
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The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.
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Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart!
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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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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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Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
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'Tis pleasure, sure, to see one's name in print;A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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Oh! if thou hast at length Discover'd that my love is worth esteem, I ask no more-but let us hence together, And I - let me say we - shall yet be happy. Assyria is not all the earth-we'll find A world out of our own - and be more bless'd Than I have ever been, or thou, with all An empire to indulge thee.
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Perverts the Prophets and purloins the Psalms.
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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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He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
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Let us have wine and woman, mirth and laughter, Sermons and soda water the day after. Man, being reasonable, must get drunk; The best of life is but intoxication: Glory, the grape, love, gold, in these are sunk The hopes of all men, and of every nation; Without their sap, how branchless were the trunk Of life's strange tree, so fruitful on occasion: But to return--Get very drunk; and when You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then.
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He who hath bent him o'er the deadEre the first day of death is fled,-The first dark day of nothingness,The last of danger and distress,Before decay's effacing fingersHave swept the lines where beauty lingers.
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Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
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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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When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter." And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.
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Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.