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 great poet belongs to no country; his works are public property, and his Memoirs the inheritance of the public.
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I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty.
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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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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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'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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There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
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This is the age of oddities let loose.
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Shelley is truth itself and honour itself notwithstanding his out-of-the-way notions about religion.
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Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart!
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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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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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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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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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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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The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.
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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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Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, Wished him five fathom under the Rialto.
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Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.
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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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Perverts the Prophets and purloins the Psalms.
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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.