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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 art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.
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With thee all tales are sweet each clime has charms earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.
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I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.
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The law of heaven and earth is life for life.
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There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
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He who is only just is cruel who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?
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Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!
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He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
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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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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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My heart in passion, and my head on rhymes.
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And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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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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I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.
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A drop of ink may make a million think.
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Tis strange,-but true for truth is always strange Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
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Since Eve ate the apple, much depends on dinner.
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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