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

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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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Land of lost gods and godlike men.
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Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed beauty without vanity, strength without insolence, courage without ferocity, and all the virtues of man, without his vices. This praise, which would be unmeaning flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the memory of Botswain, a dog.
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Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
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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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Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.
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If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
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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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One certainly has a soul but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine.
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To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.
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What's drinking? A mere pause from thinking!
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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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For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?
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In solitude, when we are least alone.
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I loved my country, and I hated him.
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I only know we loved in vain I only feel-farewell! farewell!
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I have great hopes that we shall love each other all our lives as much as if we had never married at all.
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We are all the fools of time and terror: Days Steal on us and steal from us yet we live, Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
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