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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.

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
Past
Kissing
Dearest
Stills
Wings
Dove
Still
Blood
Memorial
Firsts
Pleasure
Remembrance
First
Age
Chill
Years
Lasts
Sweetest
Love
Last
Pleasures
Chills
Away
Kiss
Fleet

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I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.
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Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.
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The fact is that my wife if she had common sense would have more power over me than any other whatsoever, for my heart always alights upon the nearest perch.
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And hold up to the sun my little taper.
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The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
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Venice once was dear, The pleasant place of all festivity, The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
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One hates an author that's all author.
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This man is freed from servile bands, Of hope to rise, or fear to fall Lord of himself, though not of lands, And leaving nothing, yet hath all.
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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.
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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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Hatred is the madness of the heart.
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