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If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy 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
Ancient
Holy
Wrong
True
Men
Tales

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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do.
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Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.
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Such is your cold coquette, who can't say No, And won't say Yes, and keeps you on and off-ing On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow, Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.
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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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I know that two and two make four - and should be glad to prove it too if I could - though I must say if by any sort of process I could convert 2 and 2 into five it would give me much greater pleasure.
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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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Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel
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For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.
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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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Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.
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The English winter - ending in July to recommence in August
Lord Byron
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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
Lord Byron
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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Retirement accords with the tone of my mind I will not descend to a world I despise.
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There are some feelings time cannot benumb, Nor torture shake.
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Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another.
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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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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.
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