Quote

The mind can make substance, and people planets of its own with beings brighter than have been, and give a breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.

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
Beings
Brighter
Form
Substance
Give
Breath
Giving
Breaths
Mind
Flesh
Make
Forms
People
Fantasy
Planets
Outlive

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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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Oh Rome! My country! City of the soul!
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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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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.
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Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another.
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Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, For into a prime minister but change His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation.
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Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
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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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And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!
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Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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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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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.
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Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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Damn description, it is always disgusting.
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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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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Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.
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