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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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
Boys
Happiness
Happy
Years
Would
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.
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To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
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Life is too short for chess.
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Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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Lord of himself that heritage of woe!
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If from society we learn to live, solitude should teach us how to die.
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Smiles form the channels of a future tear.
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Tis strange,-but true for truth is always strange Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!
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By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.
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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
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Better to sink beneath the shock Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!
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For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.
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There's naught, no doubt, so much the spirit calms as rum and true religion.
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The French courage proceeds from vanity
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A quiet conscience makes one so serene.
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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
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