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

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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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It is when we think we lead that we are most led.
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Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?
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The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
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A drop of ink may make a million think.
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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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Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
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Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.
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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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Man, being reasonable, must get drunk the best of life is but intoxication.
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There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
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Frienship is eros...without wings
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Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.
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And then he danced,-all foreigners excel the serious Angels in the eloquence of pantomime-he danced, I say, right well, with emphasis, and a'so with good sense-a thing in footing indispensable: he danced without theatrical pretence, not like a ballet-master in the van of his drill'd nymphs, but like a gentleman.
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Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
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Many are poets, but without the nameFor what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain
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Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.
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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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This is to be along this, this is solitude!
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Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.
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