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No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!
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
Conscience
Hell
Hear
Tell
Tortures
Inward
Torture
Tongue
Ears
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Fame is the thirst of youth.
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I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.
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'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.
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A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.
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I depart, Whither I know not but the hour's gone by When Albion's lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
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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 every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.
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I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day.
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Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
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A material resurrection seems strange and even absurd except for purposes of punishment, and all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must be morally wrong, and when the World is at an end, what moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer?
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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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Above or Love, Hope, Hate or Fear, It lives all passionless and pure: An age shall fleet like earthly year Its years in moments shall endure. Away, away, without a wing, O'er all, through all, its thought shall fly A nameless and eternal thing, Forgetting what it was to die.
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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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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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It is the lava of the imagination whose eruption prevents an earthquake.
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Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?
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In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.
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Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
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This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
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With thee all tales are sweet each clime has charms earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.
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