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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.

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
Thinking
Words
Falling
Life
Fall
Thousands
Like
Inspirational
Ambition
Makes
Produce
Authorship
Thought
Perhaps
Dew
Writing
Millions
Ink
Things
Small
Produces
Think
Upon
Drop

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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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Who then will explain the explanation?
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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
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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.
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All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.
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I learned to love despair.
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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.
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The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
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Absence - that common cure of love.
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By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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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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Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!
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You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
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