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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.

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
Quiet
Family
Voice
Place
Home
Wells
Well
Scream
Children
Lows

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If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
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The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.
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He who is only just is cruel who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?
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Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
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Socrates said, our only knowledge was To know that nothing could be known a pleasant Science enough, which levels to an ass Each Man of Wisdom, future, past, or present. Newton, (that Proverb of the Mind,) alas! Declared, with all his grand discoveries recent, That he himself felt only like a youth Picking up shells by the great Ocean-Truth.
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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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The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do.
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Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
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A quiet conscience makes one so serene.
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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
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Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
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Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.
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Lord of himself that heritage of woe!
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.
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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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