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I slept and dreamt that life was beauty I woke and found that life was duty.

Lord Byron

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Lord Byron
Age: 36 †
Born: 1788
Born: January 22
Died: 1824
Died: April 19
Autobiographer
Baron Byron
Diarist
Librettist
Lyricist
Military Personnel
Playwright
Poet
Politician
Translator
Writer
London
England
George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron
Noel Byron
Xhorxh Bajroni
Bajron
George Gordon
Jerzy Gordon Byron
Pai-lun
Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Noel
Byron
George Gordon Byron
Baron Byron
6th Baron Byron George Gordon Byron
George Gordon Noël Byron Byron
Bayrěn
Payrěn
George Gordon By
Duty
Beauty
Literature
Found
Life
Dreamt
Slept
Woke

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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield.
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They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.
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Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.
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The great object of life is Sensation - to feel that we exist - even though in pain - it is this craving void which drives us to gaming - to battle - to travel - to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.
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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.
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There is no instinct like that of the heart.
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Yes, love indeed is light from heaven A spark of that immortal fire with angels shared, by Allah given to lift from earth our low desire.
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Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.
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Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.
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Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
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Many are poets, but without the nameFor what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain
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What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.
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Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
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I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law.
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Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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Fame is the thirst of youth.
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One certainly has a soul but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
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