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Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.
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
Wells
Well
Feigned
Blushing
Blush
Friendship
Pure
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It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
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Land of lost gods and godlike men.
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The French courage proceeds from vanity
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Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
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Frienship is eros...without wings
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'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.
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The great object of life is Sensation - to feel that we exist - even though in pain - it is this craving void which drives us to gaming - to battle - to travel - to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.
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Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
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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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Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, For into a prime minister but change His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation.
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Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
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You gave me the key to your heart, my love, then why did you make me knock?
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The devil was the first democrat
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I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.
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This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
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And hold up to the sun my little taper.
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It is when we think we lead that we are most led.
Lord Byron
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.
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Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!
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This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
Lord Byron
