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Retirement accords with the tone of my mind I will not descend to a world I despise.

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
World
Accords
Descend
Accord
Despise
Retirement
Tone
Earth
Mind

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And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!
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Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
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Lord of himself that heritage of woe!
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But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.
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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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A pretty woman is a welcome guest.
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The Christian has greatly the advantage of the unbeliever, having everything to gain and nothing to lose.
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I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.
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The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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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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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.
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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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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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