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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
Adoration
Ideal
Ideals
Sort
Reality
Real
Heightening
Beau

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What is fame? The advantage of being known by people of whom you yourself know nothing, and for whom you care as little.
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And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
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And hold up to the sun my little taper.
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This is the patent-age of new inventions For killing bodies, and for saving souls, All propagated with the best intentions Sir Humphrey Davy's lantern, by which coals Are safely mined for in the mode he mentions, Tombuctoo travels, voyages to the Poles, Are ways to benefit mankind, as true, Perhaps, as shooting them at Waterloo.
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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!
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Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!
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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
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The very best of vineyards is the cellar
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
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Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
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Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth but actions are our epochs.
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Such is your cold coquette, who can't say No, And won't say Yes, and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.
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