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Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, He would have written sonnets all his life?.
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
Written
Would
Think
Thinking
Life
Sonnets
Laura
Sonnet
Wife
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Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.
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Absence - that common cure of love.
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Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger opens a new world When this, the present, palls.
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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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Poetry should only occupy the idle.
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The art of angling, the cruelest, the coldest and the stupidest of pretended sports.
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The place is very well and quiet and the children only scream in a low voice.
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The devil was the first democrat
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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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The world is a bundle of hay, Mankind are the asses that pull, Each tugs in a different way And the greatest of all is John Bull!
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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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I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.
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Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.
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Where are the forms the sculptor's soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
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Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
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Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
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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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