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

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All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
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'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.
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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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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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And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.
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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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But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
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But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
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In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
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Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth but actions are our epochs.
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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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Always laugh when you can. It is cheap medicine.
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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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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
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