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Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.

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
Went
Withdrawn
Water
Veil
Hate
Veils
Would
Waters
Sunless
Like
Twilight
Assail
Mask
Twas
Waste
Disclose
Whose
Frown

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Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.
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Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?
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I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.
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And Doubt and Discord step 'twixt thine and thee.
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Friendship is Love without his wings!
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Champagne with its foaming whirls/As white as Cleopatra's pearls.
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Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.
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O ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations, Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain, I pray ye flog them upon all occasions, It mends their morals, never mind the pain.
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Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine, And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.
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And life 's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
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By headless Charles see heartless Henry lies.
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Absence - that common cure of love.
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But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
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If I could always read, I should never feel the want of company.
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Of religion I know nothing -- at least, in its favor.
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But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
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But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
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I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.
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We of the craft are all crazy.
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