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Lord of himself that heritage of woe!

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
Woe
Heritage
Lord

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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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Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
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Though the day of my Destiny 's over, And the star of my Fate hath declined, Thy soft heart refused to discover The faults which so many could find.
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Now what I love in women is, they won't Or can't do otherwise than lie, but do it. So well, the very truth seems falsehood to it.
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We have fools in all sects, and impostors in most why should I believe mysteries no one can understand, because written by men who chose to mistake madness for inspiration and style themselves Evangelicals?
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A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.
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All who joy would win must share it. Happiness was born a Twin.
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Absence - that common cure of love.
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The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.
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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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The 'good old times' - all times when old are good.
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If we must have a tyrant, let him at least be a gentleman who has been bred to the business, and let us fall by the axe and not by the butcher's cleaver.
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A little still she strove, and much repented, And whispering “I will ne'er consent”—consented.
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And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.
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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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Why I came here, I know not where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?
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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to woe.
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The Christian has greatly the advantage of the unbeliever, having everything to gain and nothing to lose.
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Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?
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