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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.

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
Heightening
Beau
Adoration
Ideal
Ideals
Sort
Reality
Real

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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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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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And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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America is a model of force and freedom and moderation - with all the coarseness and rudeness of its people.
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And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity.
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There is music in all things, if men had ears.
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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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What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!
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And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.
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And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.
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I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.
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Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.
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Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
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With flowing tail and flying mane, Wide nostrils never stretched by pain, Mouth bloodless to bit or rein, And feet that iron never shod, And flanks unscar'd by spur or rod, A thousand horses - the wild - the free - Like waves that follow o'er the sea, Came thickly thundering on.
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Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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There is no instinct like that of the heart.
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Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of Good in his main-spring of Mind. But God help us all! It is at present a sad jar of atoms.
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I learned to love despair.
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Man is a carnivorous production, And must have meals, at least one meal a day He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction, But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey Although his anatomical construction Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way, Your laboring people think beyond all question, Beef, veal, and mutton better for digestion.
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