Lord Byron Quotes
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And both were young, and one was beautiful.
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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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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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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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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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Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
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Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart!
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And thou wert lovely to the last,Extinguish'd, not decay'd;As stars that shoot along the skyShine brightest as they fall from high.
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Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
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Sublime tobacco! which from east to westCheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest.
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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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The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.
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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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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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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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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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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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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
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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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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister.
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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.
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Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.