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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
Dreamt
Slept
Woke
Duty
Beauty
Literature
Found
Life

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Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.
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Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.
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I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.
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The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains--beautiful! I linger yet with nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man, and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness I learned the language of another world.
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Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
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And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.
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Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
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The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
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Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.
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Man is a carnivorous production, And must have meals, at least one meal a day He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey Although his anatomical construction Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, Your laboring people think beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton better for digestion.
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What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!
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I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.
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Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
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The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you will, A word's enough to raise mankind to kill.
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Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.
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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
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