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And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy They have a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.
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
Upon
Breaths
Toils
Dream
Touch
Tortures
Take
Weight
Divide
Tears
Toil
Dreams
Divides
Thoughts
Waking
Development
Torture
Joy
Breath
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Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
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What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.
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The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains--beautiful! I linger yet with nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man, and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness I learned the language of another world.
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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Then farewell, Horace whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
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For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
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O Fame! if I ever took delight in thy praises, Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases, Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover The thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
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In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
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Happiness was born a twin.
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Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.
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Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?
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A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty
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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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My altars are the mountains and the ocean.
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My native land, good night!
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Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister
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But at sixteen the conscience rarely gnaws So much, as when we call our old debts in At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil, And find a deuced balance with the devil.
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Many are poets, but without the nameFor what is Poesy but to createFrom overfeeling Good or Ill and aimAt an external life beyond our fate,And be the new Prometheus of new men,Bestowing fire from Heaven, and then, too late,Finding the pleasure given repaid with pain
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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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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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