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So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!
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
Blushing
Blush
Scarce
Pity
Sweet
Less
Wish
Bashfulness
More quotes by Lord Byron
Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
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Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.
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There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.
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When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past - For years fleet away with the wings of the dove - The dearest remembrance will still be the last, Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.
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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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The premises are so delightfully extensive, that two people might live together without ever seeing, hearing or meeting.
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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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He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.
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Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
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I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day.
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Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.
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Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.
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Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime? Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle, Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime!
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Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.
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The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.
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The devil was the first democrat
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All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.
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Eternity forbids thee to forget.
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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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Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind! Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art, For there thy habitation is the heart-- The heart which love of thee alone can bind And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd-- To fetters and damp vault's dayless gloom, Their country conquers with their martyrdom.
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