Lord Byron Quotes
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This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
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Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown'd him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
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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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Sublime tobacco! which from east to westCheers the tar's labor or the Turkman's rest.
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Where is he, the champion and the childOf all that's great or little, wise or wild;Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones;Whose table earth - whose dice were human bones?
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My great comfort is, that the temporary celebrity I have wrung from the world has been in the very teeth of all opinions and prejudices. I have flattered no ruling powers; I have never concealed a single thought that tempted me.
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The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle.
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Jack was embarrassed - never hero more,And as he knew not what to say, he swore.
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Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
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I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.
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Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?
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I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty.
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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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A great poet belongs to no country; his works are public property, and his Memoirs the inheritance of the public.
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Perverts the Prophets and purloins the Psalms.
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Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, Wished him five fathom under the Rialto.
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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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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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This is the age of oddities let loose.
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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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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe.
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As soonSeek roses in December, ice in June;Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;Believe a woman or an epitaph,Or any other thing that's false, beforeYou trust in critics, who themselves are sore.
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And if we do but watch the hour, There never yet was human powerWhich could evade, if unforgiven, The patient search and vigil longOf him who treasures up a wrong.