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Fills The air around with beauty.

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
Fills
Air
Beauty
Around

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We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
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The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.
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The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains--beautiful! I linger yet with nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man, and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness I learned the language of another world.
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Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story The days of our youth are the days of our glory And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
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That famish'd people must be slowly nurst, and fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
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Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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Life is too short for chess.
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Then farewell, Horace whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
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Frienship is eros...without wings
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Eternity forbids thee to forget.
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My native land, good night!
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Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.
Lord Byron
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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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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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'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!
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The Coach does not play in the game, but the Coach helps the players identify areas to improve their game.
Lord Byron