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We of the craft are all crazy.
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
Crazy
Bipolar
Craft
Crafts
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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
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Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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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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O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
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Absence - that common cure of love.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, I can't help thinking puberty assisted.
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He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.
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A thirst for gold, The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm The meanest hearts.
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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
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All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.
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Despair and Genius are too oft connected
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There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
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There is, in fact, no law or government at all and it is wonderful how well things go on without them.
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Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
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He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
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