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

Lord
Byron, formally George Gordon Noel Byron, 6th Baron Byron
1788
1824

British Poet and leading figure in the Romantic Movement

Author Quotes

While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls - the World.

Why don't they knead two virtuous souls for life Into that moral centaur, man and wife?

Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss.

Tis strange - but true; for truth is always strange; stranger than fiction; if it could be told, how much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold! How oft would vice and virtue places change! The new world would be nothing to the old, if some Columbus of the moral seas would show mankind their souls' antipodes.

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind: all are not fit with them to stir and toil, nor is it discontent to keep the mind deep in its fountain.

Tyranny Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem none rebels except subjects? The prince who neglects or violates his trust is more a brigand than the robber-chief.

We ne'er forget, tho' there we are forgot.

What is hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

When all of genius which can perish dies.

When we two parted in silence and tears, half broken-hearted, to sever for years, pale grew thy cheek and cold, colder thy kiss; truly that hour foretold sorrow to this. The dew of the morning sank chill on my brow— it felt like the warning of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, and light is thy fame: i hear thy name spoken, and share in its shame. They name thee before me, a knell to mine ear; a shudder comes o'er me— why wert thou so dear? They know not i knew thee, who knew thee too well — long, long shall I rue thee too deeply to tell. In secret we met— in silence I grieve that thy heart could forget, thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee after long years, how should I greet thee?— with silence and tears.

Who could be happy and alone or good?

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?

The sword outwears its sheath, and the soul wears out the breast. And the heart must pause to breathe, and love itself have rest.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are stronger at the broken places.

There is a tear for all who die, a mourner o'er the humblest grave.

There is nothing gives a man such spirits, Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry, As going at full speed--no matter where its Direction be, so 'tis but in a hurry, And merely for the sake of its own merits; For the less cause there is for all this flurry, The greater is the pleasure in arriving At the great end of travel--which is driving.

There's nought in this bad world like sympathy: 'tis so becoming to the soul and face-- sets to soft music the harmonious sigh, and robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.

Thinkst thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs; mine Have made my days and nights imperishable, Endless, and all alike.

Thou shalt believe in Milton, Dryden, Pope; Thou shalt not set up Wordsworth, Coleridge, Southey; because the first is crazed beyond all hope, The second drunk, the third so quaint and mouthy.

The present century was growing blind To the great Marlborough's skill in giving knocks, until his late life by Archdeacon Coxe.

The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation, And for the bass, the beast can only bellow; In fact, he had no singing education, An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow

The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses that pull, each tugs in a different way— and the greatest of all is John Bull!

There is a tide in the affairs of women which, taken at the flood, leads - God knows where.

There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is a rapture on the lonely shore, there is society, where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more, from these our interviews, in which I steal from all I may be, or have been before, to mingle with the Universe, and feel what I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

These blasted pines, wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, a blighted trunk upon a cursed root.

Author Picture
First Name
Lord
Last Name
Byron, formally George Gordon Noel Byron, 6th Baron Byron
Birth Date
1788
Death Date
1824
Bio

British Poet and leading figure in the Romantic Movement