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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?

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
Shows
Sculptors
Nature
Sculpture
Form
Hath
Soul
Fairs
Fair
Forms
Alone
Sculptor
Show
Seized

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I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.
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Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls.
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The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
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He who is only just is cruel who Upon the earth would live were all judged justly?
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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My slumbers--if I slumber--are not sleep, But a continuance of enduring thought, Which then I can resist not: in my heart There is a vigil, and these eyes but close To look within and yet I live, and bear The aspect and the form of breathing men.
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I only know we loved in vain I only feel-farewell! farewell!
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But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.
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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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Go let thy less than woman's hand Assume the distaff not the brand.
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But as to women, who can penetrate the real sufferings of their she condition? Man's very sympathy with their estate has much of selfishness and more suspicion. Their love, their virtue, beauty, education, but form good housekeepers, to breed a nation.
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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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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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And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity.
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You should have a softer pillow than my heart.
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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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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