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Hatred is the madness of the heart.

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
Madness
Hatred
Hate
Heart

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I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.
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You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
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The French courage proceeds from vanity
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The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.
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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.
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What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.
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It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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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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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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Come what may, I have been blest.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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The waves were dead the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd Darkness had no need Of aid from them-She was the Universe.
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