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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

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
Eye
Spread
Waxed
War
Wings
Sleepers
Death
Angel
Breathed
Stills
Hearts
Foe
Still
Grew
Blast
Ever
Eyes
Deadly
Heart
Face
Chill
Faces
Passed
Heaved

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...And these vicissitudes come best in youth For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Has won experience which is deem'd so weighty.
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The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game.
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Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
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It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.
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Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.
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I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw.
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Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
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Despair and Genius are too oft connected
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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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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He who is only just is cruel who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?
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Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
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For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.
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And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity.
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It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England if false, England was unfit for me.
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I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.
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