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Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.

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
Dead
Fantastical
Apparel
Grave
Graves
Loves
Grief

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Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.
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Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
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Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, Over the unreturning brave.
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The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!
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Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.
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Pure friendship's well-feigned blush.
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Absence - that common cure of love.
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No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!
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Come what may, I have been blest.
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This is to be along this, this is solitude!
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Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.
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Lord of himself that heritage of woe!
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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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And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
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There is no instinct like that of the heart.
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May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
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I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.
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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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Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
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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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