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You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?

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
Gave
Heart
Make
Love
Knock
Keys

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Above or Love, Hope, Hate or Fear, It lives all passionless and pure: An age shall fleet like earthly year Its years in moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die.
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The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
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Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another.
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We of the craft are all crazy.
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Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
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With flowing tail and flying mane, Wide nostrils never stretched by pain, Mouth bloodless to bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscar'd by spur or rod, A thousand horses - the wild - the free - Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on.
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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
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The lapse of ages changes all things - time, language, the earth, the bounds of the sea, the stars of the sky, and every thing about, around, and underneath man, except man himself.
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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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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In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
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Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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