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My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
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
Mountains
Mountain
Ocean
Altars
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What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.
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To be perfectly original one should think much and read little, and this is impossible, for one must have read before one has learnt to think.
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Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.
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Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
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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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I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.
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The very best of vineyards is the cellar
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Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of thee alone can bind And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd-- To fetters and damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom.
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Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
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It is when we think we lead that we are most led.
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I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.
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Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.
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For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
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Damn description, it is always disgusting.
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The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses that pull, Each tugs in a different way And the greatest of all is John Bull!
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Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
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This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.
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I really cannot know whether I am or am not the Genius you are pleased to call me, but I am very willing to put up with the mistake, if it be one.
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