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The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.

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
Would
Common
Upon
Fact
Sense
Perch
Facts
Nearest
Power
Whatsoever
Heart
Wife
Always
Literature

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She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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I have always laid it down as a maxim -and found it justified by experience -that a man and a woman make far better friendships than can exist between two of the same sex -but then with the condition that they never have made or are to make love to each other.
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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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Why I came here, I know not where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?
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We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
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Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.
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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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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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But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
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I should like to know who has been carried off, except poor dear me - I have been more ravished myself than anybody since the Trojan war.
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But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.
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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.
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There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
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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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