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

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The lapse of ages changes all things - time, language, the earth, the bounds of the sea, the stars of the sky, and every thing about, around, and underneath man, except man himself.
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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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The poetry of speech.
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The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game.
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I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw.
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It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
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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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A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity.
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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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Be hypocritical, be cautious, be not what you seem but always what you see.
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Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years .
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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Frienship is eros...without wings
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Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
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