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But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

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
Truth
Paint
Nothing
Hold
Least
Cheeked
Existence
Harlot
Face
Rubs
Faces
Harlots
Hope
Hollow
Pain
Touch

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Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others.
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This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
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It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
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If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to himself...that a tiger is an optical illusion--well, he will find out he is wrong. The tiger will himself intervene in the discussion, in a manner which will be in every sense conclusive.
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Frienship is eros...without wings
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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
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None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
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The Christian has greatly the advantage of the unbeliever, having everything to gain and nothing to lose.
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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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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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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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The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
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Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.
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Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.
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Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
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The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
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I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels make air instead of sea voyages and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
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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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