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She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.

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
Dark
Bright
Eye
Sky
Night
Aspect
Best
Meet
Climes
Love
Poetry
Cloudless
Like
Walks
Gaudy
Beauty
Starry
Eyes
Skies

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Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield.
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This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls, All propagated with the best intentions Sir Humphrey Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.
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Retirement accords with the tone of my mind I will not descend to a world I despise.
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.
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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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I doubt sometimes whether a quiet and unagitated life would have suited me - yet I sometimes long for it.
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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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Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth but actions are our epochs.
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But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
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Tis an old lesson time approves it true, And those who know it best, deplore it most When all is won that all desire to woo, The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost.
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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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My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.
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Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
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You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
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