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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
Spring
Bubbling
Flower
Venom
Joy
Fling
Stills
Springs
Still
Delicious
Bitterness
Flowers
Flings
Bitter
Fount
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A pretty woman is a welcome guest.
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Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.
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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day.
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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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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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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My native land, good night!
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A celebrity is one who is known to many persons he is glad he doesn't know.
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It is singular how soon we lose the impression of what ceases to be constantly before us. A year impairs, a luster obliterates. There is little distinct left without an effort of memory, then indeed the lights are rekindled for a moment - but who can be sure that the Imagination is not the torch-bearer?
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I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.
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Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
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Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.
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Fame is the thirst of youth.
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We of the craft are all crazy.
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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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Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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