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'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.

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
Looks
Love
Brighter
Mark
Sweet
Coming
Eye
Look
Come

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But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.
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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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A drop of ink may make a million think.
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Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.
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I have no consistency, except in politics and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
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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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Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.
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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.
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A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
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Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
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But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.
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Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?
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We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?
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Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?
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Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.
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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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With thee all tales are sweet each clime has charms earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.
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Then farewell, Horace whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
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Many are poets, but without the nameFor what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain
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