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No words suffice the secret soul to show, For truth denies all eloquence to 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
Truth
Denies
Soul
Woe
Eloquence
Deny
Secret
Show
Words
Shows
Suffice
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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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And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.
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Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?
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Poetry should only occupy the idle.
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The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
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I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.
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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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In England the only homage which they pay to Virtue - is hypocrisy.
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In general I do not draw well with literary men -- not that I dislike them but I never know what to say to them after I have praised their last publication.
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But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.
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No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!
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A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.
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Tis said that persons living on annuities Are longer lived than others.
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Nothing so difficult as a beginning In poesy, unless perhaps the end.
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Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.
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I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.
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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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For through the South the custom still commands The gentleman to kiss the lady's hands.
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Curiosity kills itself and love is only curiosity, as is proved by its end.
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Oh, talk not to me of a name great in story The days of our youth are the days of our glory And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty Are worth all your laurels, though ever so plenty.
Lord Byron
