Lord Byron Quotes

Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.

I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.

Have not all past human beings parted, And must not all the present, one day part?

I have had, and may have still, a thousand friends, as they are called, in life, who are like one's partners in the waltz of this world -not much remembered when the ball is over.

Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

Life is too short for chess.

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!

Tyranny is for the worst of treasons.

As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.

The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.

What an antithetical mind! - tenderness, roughness - delicacy, coarseness - sentiment, sensuality - soaring and groveling, dirt and deity - all mixed up in that one compound of inspired clay!

To withdraw myself from myself has ever been my sole, my entire, my sincere motive in scribbling at all.

The law of heaven and earth is life for life.

That music in itself, whose sounds are song, The poetry of speech.

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.

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

Exhausting thought, And hiving wisdom with each studious year.

As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.

None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean

Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.

Your thief looks Exactly like the rest, or rather better; 'Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon, That wise men know your felon by his features.

I love the language, it sounds as if it should be writ on satin with syllables which breathe of the sweet South

A small drop of ink makes thousands, perhaps millions... think.

Hearts will break - yet brokenly, live on.

A legal broom's a moral chimney-sweeper, And that's the reason he himself's so dirty

Let joy be unconfined.

Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,- Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.

I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture.

You should have a softer pillow than my heart.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.

He who surpasses or subdues mankind, must look down on the hate of those below.

What deep wounds ever closed without a scar? The hearts bleed longest, and heals but to wear That which disfigures it.

Though sages may pour out their wisdom's treasure, there is no sterner moralist than pleasure.

What is the worst of woes that wait on age? What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? To view each loved one blotted from life's page, And be alone on earth, as I am now.

'Tis very certain the desire of life prolongs it.

A sort of hostile transaction, very necessary to keep the world going, but by no means a sinecure to the parties concerned.

Critics are already made.

I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.

The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.

If I am fool, it is, at least, a doubting one; and I envy no one the certainty of his self-approved wisdom.

I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.

Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.

But stories somehow lengthen when begun.

Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.

Prolonged endurance tames the bold.

I am always most religious upon a sunshiny day.

No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.