Quote

I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.

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
High
Portions
Feelings
Climbs
Around
Climbing
Become
Mountains
Live
Torture
Human
Mountain
Humans
Cities
Mountaineering
Feeling
Portion

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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
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I am about to be married, and am of course in all the misery of a man in pursuit of happiness.
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It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
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A pretty woman is a welcome guest.
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Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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I have not loved the World, nor the World me I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.
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Lord of himself that heritage of woe!
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Why I came here, I know not where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?
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I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.
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Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog.
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What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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