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Land of lost gods and godlike men.

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
Gods
Losing
Land
Lost
Men
Godlike

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It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
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Alas! how deeply painful is all payment!
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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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Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.
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Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
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It has been said that the immortality of the soul is a grand peut-tre -but still it is a grand one. Everybody clings to it -the stupidest, and dullest, and wickedest of human bipeds is still persuaded that he is immortal.
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Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
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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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Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.
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The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
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Let not his mode of raising cash seem strange, Although he fleeced the flags of every nation, For into a prime minister but change His title, and 'tis nothing but taxation.
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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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Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
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The reading or non-reading a book will never keep down a single petticoat.
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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They truly mourn, that mourn without a witness.
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There is no instinct like that of the heart.
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Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
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When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past - For years fleet away with the wings of the dove - The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
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The heart will break, but broken live on.
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