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I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

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
Dream

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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!
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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!
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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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Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.
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Now I shall go to sleep. Goodnight.
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There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
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Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?
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And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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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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I depart, Whither I know not but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
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History - the devil's scripture
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Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
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It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
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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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In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
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