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Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

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
Night
Morn
Two
Verge
Life
Horizon
Like
Comparison
World
Worlds
Star
Stars
Twixt
Upon
Hovers

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Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
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Who then will explain the explanation?
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Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.
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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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My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
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So for a good old-gentlemanly vice, I think I must take up with avarice.
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years .
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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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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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It is when we think we lead that we are most led.
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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Absence - that common cure of love.
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He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
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Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
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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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Poetry should only occupy the idle.
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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
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