Lord Byron Quotes
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Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart!
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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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'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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I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty.
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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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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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A great poet belongs to no country; his works are public property, and his Memoirs the inheritance of the public.
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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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Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
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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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This is the age of oddities let loose.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
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There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
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But first, on earth as vampire sent, Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent, Then ghastly haunt thy native place, And suck the blood of all thy race. There from thy daughter, sister, wife, At midnight drain the stream of life, Yet loathe the banquet which perforce Must feed thy livid living corse. Thy victims ere they yet expire Shall know the demon for their sire, As cursing thee, thou cursing them, Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
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This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions.
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Sublime tobacco! which from east to westCheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest.
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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
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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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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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Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe.
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Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.