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There is no instinct like that of the heart.

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
Intuition
Instinct
Heart
Love
Like
Engagement

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One hates an author that's all author.
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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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Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of thee alone can bind And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd-- To fetters and damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom.
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Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!
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Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
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I have no consistency, except in politics and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
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Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.
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All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99
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This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
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For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
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Above or Love, Hope, Hate or Fear, It lives all passionless and pure: An age shall fleet like earthly year Its years in moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die.
Lord Byron
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Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!
Lord Byron
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I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.
Lord Byron
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
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But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.
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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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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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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
Lord Byron