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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

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
Many
Name
Poets
Good
Fire
Ill
Men
Names
Findings
Life
Pleasure
Finding
Poesy
Heaven
Fate
Bestowing
Pain
Poet
Repaid
Given
Late
Prometheus
Without
Beyond
External

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The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
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But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
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Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
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It is true from early habit, one must make love mechanically as one swims I was once very fond of both, but now as I never swim unless I tumble into the water, I don't make love till almost obliged.
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It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
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Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.
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It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
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I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels make air instead of sea voyages and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
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I should, many a good day, have blown my brains out, but for the recollection that it would have given pleasure to my mother-in-law.
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A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.
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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.
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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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History - the devil's scripture
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And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.
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The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do.
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.
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