Lord Byron, formally George Gordon Noel Byron, 6th Baron Byron

Byron, formally George Gordon Noel Byron, 6th Baron Byron

British Poet and leading figure in the Romantic Movement

Author Quotes

Who killed John Keats? "I," says the Quarterly, so savage and tartarly; "'twas one of my feats."

Till taught by pain, Men really know not what good water's worth; If you had been in Turkey or in Spain, Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth, Or in the desert heard the camel's bell, You'd wish yourself where Truth is--in a well.

Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it.

To what gulfs A single deviation from the track Of human duties leads even those who claim The homage of mankind as their born due, And find it, till they forfeit it themselves!

Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep.

Well, well, the world must turn upon its axis, and all mankind turn with it, heads or tails, and live and die, make love and pay our taxes, and as the veering winds shift, shift our sails.

What men call gallantry and gods adultery Is much more common where the climate's sultry.

When it gets dark enough you can see the stars.

Where is he, the champion and the child of 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?

Who like sour fruit to stir their veins' salt tides.

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow, such as Creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.

Tis very puzzling on the brink Of what is called Eternity to stare, And know no more of what is here, than there.

To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.

War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife!"

Were't the last drop in the well, as I gasp'd upon the brink, ere my fainting spirit fell 't is to thee that I would drink.

What of them is left, to tell Where they lie, and how they fell? Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves: But they live in the Verse that immortally saves.

When Newton saw an apple fall, he found In that slight startle from his contemplation - 'Tis said (for I'll not answer above ground For any sage's creed or calculation) - A mode of proving that the earth turned round In a most natural whirl called G

Where is the world?" cries Young, at eighty. "Where The world in which a man was born?" Alas! Where is the world of eight years past? 'Twas there-- I look for it--'tis gone, a globe of glass Cracked, shivered, vanished, scarcely gazed on ere A silent change dissolves the glittering mass. Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings, And dandies, all are gone on the wind's wings.

Who loves, raves--'tis youth's frenzy--but the cure Is bitterer still.

Time, the corrector when our judgments err, the test of truth and love; sole philosopher, for all besides are sophists.

Titan! To whom immortal eyes the sufferings of mortality seen in their sad reality, were not as things that gods despise; what was thy pity's recompense? A silent suffering, and intense; the rock, the vulture, and the chain, all that the proud can feel of pain, the agony they do not show, the suffocating sense of woe, which speaks but in its loneliness, and then is jealous lest the sky should have a listener, nor will sigh until its voice is echoless. Titan! To thee the strife was given between the suffering and the will, which torture where they cannot kill; and the inexorable heaven, and the deaf tyranny of fate, the ruling principle of hate, which for its pleasure doth create the things it may annihilate, refused thee even the boon to die: the wretched gift eternity was thine — and thou hast borne it well. All that the thunderer wrung from thee was but the menace which flung back on him the torments of thy rack; the fate thou didst so well foresee, but would not to appease him tell; and in thy silence was his sentence, and in his soul a vain repentance, and evil dread so ill dissembled, that in his hand the lightnings trembled. Thy godlike crime was to be kind, to render with thy precepts less the sum of human wretchedness, and strengthen man with his own mind; but baffled as thou wert from high, still in thy patient energy, in the endurance, and repulse of thine impenetrable spirit, which earth and heaven could not convulse, a mighty lesson we inherit: thou art a symbol and a sign to mortals of their fate and force; like thee, man is in part divine, a troubled stream from a pure source; and man in portions can foresee his own funereal destiny; his wretchedness, and his resistance, and his sad unallied existence: to which his spirit may oppose itself — and equal to all woes, and a firm will, and a deep sense, which even in torture can decry its own concenter'd recompense, triumphant where it dares defy, and making death a victory.

Tough times never last, but tough people do.

War's a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art, unless her cause by right be sanctified.

What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head, And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger Is all the rest about her.

What say you to such a supper with such a woman?

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Byron, formally George Gordon Noel Byron, 6th Baron Byron
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British Poet and leading figure in the Romantic Movement