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

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The French courage proceeds from vanity
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But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.
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He makes a solitude, and calls it - peace!
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Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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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 English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
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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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I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one.
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All human history attests That happiness for man, - the hungry sinner! - Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner. ~Lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto XIII, stanza 99
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Bread has been made (indifferent) from potatoes And galvanism has set some corpses grinning, But has not answer'd like the apparatus Of the Humane Society's beginning, By which men are unsuffocated gratis: What wondrous new machines have late been spinning.
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In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.
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Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
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Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
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This is to be along this, this is solitude!
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O ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain.
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By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.
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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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