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Why I came here, I know not where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?

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
Shall
Infinity
Came
Atoms
Stars
Anxious
Literature
Worlds
Living
Systems
World
Midst
Myriads
Useless
Inquire
Dead
Atom

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A quiet conscience makes one so serene.
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Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
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Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?
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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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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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Man, being reasonable, must get drunk the best of life is but intoxication.
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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The waves were dead the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Universe.
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The reason that adulation is not displeasing is that, though untrue, it shows one to be of consequence enough, in one way or other, to induce people to lie.
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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The devil was the first democrat
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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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Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story The days of our youth are the days of our glory And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
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I only know we loved in vain I only feel-farewell! farewell!
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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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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