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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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
Delicious
Bitterness
Flowers
Flings
Bitter
Fount
Spring
Bubbling
Flower
Venom
Joy
Fling
Stills
Springs
More quotes by Lord Byron
One certainly has a soul but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
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The poetry of speech.
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But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
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The great object of life is Sensation - to feel that we exist - even though in pain - it is this craving void which drives us to gaming - to battle - to travel - to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment.
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This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions.
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I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.
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For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.
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To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
Lord Byron
And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
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In solitude, when we are least alone.
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Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom.
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But as to women, who can penetrate the real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate has much of selfishness and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, but form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.
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Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
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Fill high the cup with Samian wine!
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Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.
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Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth but actions are our epochs.
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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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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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There is no instinct like that of the heart.
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