Lord Byron

Lord Byron

George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron (22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824), commonly known simply as Lord Byron, was a British poet, peer, politician, and a leading figure in the Romantic movement. Among his best-known works are the lengthy narrative poems, Don Juan and Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, and the short lyric poem, "She Walks in Beauty".

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He said / Little but to the purpose.

Words are things and a small drop of ink falling like dew upon a thought produces that which makes thousands perhaps millions think

If this be true indeed / Some Christians have a comfortable creed.

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.

There is no such thing as a life of passion any more than a continuous earthquake or an eternal fever. Besides who would ever shave themselves in such a state?

It is not one man nor a million but the spirit of liberty that must be preserved. The waves which dash upon the shore are one by one broken but the ocean conquers nevertheless. It overwhelms the Armada it wears out the rock. In like manner whatever the struggle of individuals the great cause will gather strength.

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.

I have found that a friend may profess yet deceive.

Well didst thou speak Athena's wisest son!/ All that we know is nothing can be known.

Who falls from all he knows of bliss Cares little into what abyss

Let these describe the indescribable.

With death doomed to grapple / Beneath this cold slab he / Who lied in the chapel / Now lies in the Abbey.

In her first passion a woman loves her lover in all the others all she loves is love

The land of self-interest groans from shore to shore / For fear that plenty should attain the poor.

'Tis pity wine should be so deleterious for, tea and coffee leave us much more serious

An old man / With an old soul and both extremely blind.

What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms their dresses their banners and the art and artificial symmetry of their position and movements.

Not to admire is all the art I know.

But time strips our illusions of their hue And one by one in turn some grand mistake Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake

Shakespeare's name you may depend on it stands absolutely too - high and will go down

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