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What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.

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
Heart
Closed
Wounds
Heal
Hearts
Wear
Heals
Deep
Bleed
Ever
Longest
Without
Scar

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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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Who then will explain the explanation?
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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
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[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.
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Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader Some by a place--as tend their years or natures The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
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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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Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer'd like the apparatus Of the Humane Society's beginning, By which men are unsuffocated gratis: What wondrous new machines have late been spinning.
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Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber!
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Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
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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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Land of lost gods and godlike men.
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All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99
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If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
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Your thief looks Exactly like the rest, or rather better 'Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon, That wise men know your felon by his features.
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Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
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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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Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.
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A drop of ink may make a million think.
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