Lord Byron Quotes
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For a man to become a poet, he must be in love, or miserable.
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The castled crag of Drachenfels, Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, Whose breast of waters broadly swells Between the banks which bear the vine, And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, And fields which promise corn and wine, And scatter'd cities crowning these, Whose far white walls along them shine.
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This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
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Sublime tobacco! which from east to west, Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest; Which on the Moslem's ottoman divides His hours, and rivals opium and his brides; Magnificent in Stamboul, but less grand, Though not less loved, in Wapping or the Strand: Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe, When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe; Like other charmers wooing the caress, More dazzlingly when daring in full dress; Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties Give me a cigar!
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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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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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Are we aware of our obligations to a mob? It is the mob that labor in your fields and serve in your houses - that man your navy, and recruit your army - that have enabled you to defy the world, and can also defy you when neglect and calamity have driven them to despair. You may call the people a mob; but do not forget that a mob too often speaks the sentiments of the people.
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The careful pilot of my proper woe.
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Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago; And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation; but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?
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Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
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The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
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Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
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I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.
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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
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His heart was one of those which most enamour us,Wax to receive, and marble to retain:He was a lover of the good old school,Who still become more constant as they cool.
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Armenian is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.
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He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes.
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Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.
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I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.
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I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, - and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, - thou livest forever!
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A light broke in upon my brain, -It was the carol of a bird;It ceased, and then it came again,The sweetest song ear ever heard.
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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.