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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!

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
Done
Turtles
Cypress
Love
Melt
Clime
Greece
Cypresses
Rage
Madden
Deeds
Myrtle
Sorrow
Vulture
Crime
Turtle
Land
Emblems

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Why I came here, I know not where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?
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Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe... Yet thy true lovers more admire by far Thy naked beauties - give me a cigar!
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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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Absence - that common cure of love.
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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What men call gallantry, and gods adultery, is much more common where the climate's sultry.
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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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Man is born passionate of body, but with an innate though secret tendency to the love of Good in his main-spring of Mind. But God help us all! It is at present a sad jar of atoms.
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...And these vicissitudes come best in youth For when they happen at a riper age, People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth, And wonder Providence is not more sage. Adversity is the first path to truth: He who hath proved war, storm, or woman's rage, Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty, Has won experience which is deem'd so weighty.
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I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.
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Admire, exult, despise, laugh, weep for here There is such matter for all feelings: Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
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But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
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Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
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Damn description, it is always disgusting.
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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Though I love my country, I do not love my countrymen.
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I learned to love despair.
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I suppose we shall soon travel by air-vessels make air instead of sea voyages and at length find our way to the moon, in spite of the want of atmosphere.
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For truth is always strange stranger than fiction.
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Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
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