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All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.

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
Still
Grows
Sleep
Feeling
Though
Heaven
Feelings
Breathless
Stills
Grow
Earth
Silence

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Man's conscience is the oracle of God.
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The devil was the first democrat
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Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures And all are to be sold, if you consider Their passions, and are dext'rous some by features Are brought up, others by a warlike leader Some by a place--as tend their years or natures The most by ready cash--but all have prices, From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
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She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes.
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Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
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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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I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.
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I came to realize clearly that the mind is no other than the Mountain and the Rivers and the great wide Earth, the Sun and the Moon and the Sky”.
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I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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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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Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
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The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.
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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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I was accused of every monstrous vice by public rumour and private rancour my name, which had been a knightly or noble one, was tainted. I felt that, if what was whispered, and muttered, and murmured, was true, I was unfit for England if false, England was unfit for me.
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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
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'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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