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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
Altars
Mountains
Mountain
Ocean
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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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Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.
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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
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[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.
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Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.
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Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.
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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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Though the day of my Destiny 's over, And the star of my Fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find.
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Curiosity kills itself and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
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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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But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
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Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
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This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.
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Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!
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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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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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Few things surpass old wine and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain
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Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
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