Lord Byron Quotes

Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable
Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore
Innumerable atoms; and one desert
Barren and cold, on which the wild waves break,
But nothing rests, save carcases and wrecks,
Rocks, and the salt-surf weeds of bitterness.

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half brokenhearted,
To sever for years.

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred.

To him the magic of their mysteries;
To him the book of Night was opened wide,
And voices from the deep abyss revealed
A marvel and a secret. — Be it so.

And, after all, what is a lie? ’Tis but
The truth in masquerade

Happiness was born a twin.

And he who lieth there was childless. I have dried the fountain of gentle race..
-Cain

And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own,
And every woe a tear can claim
Except an erring sister's shame.

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

My poem's epic, and is meant to be

That is the usual method, but not mine–
My way is to begin with the beginning;
The regularity of my design
Forbids all wandering as the worst of sinning,
And therefore I shall open with a line
(Although it cost me half an hour in spinning)

What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger
Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head,
And what a whirl-pool full of depth and danger
Is all the rest about her! Whether wed,
Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her
Mind like the wind: whatever she has said
Or done, is light to what she’ll say or do; — The oldest thing on record, and yet new!

Love has no gift so grateful as his wings:
How fair, how young, how soft soe’er he seem,
Full from the fount of Joy’s delicious springs
Some bitter o’er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

And gave no outward signs of inward strife,

Man. (alone). We are the fools of Time and Terror: Days
Steal on us, and steal from us; yet we live,
Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.
In all the days of this detested yoke — This vital weight upon the struggling heart,
Which sinks with sorrow, or beats quick with pain,
Or joy that ends in agony or faintness — 170
In all the days of past and future — for
In life there is no present — we can number
How few — how less than few — wherein the soul
Forbears to pant for death, and yet draws back
As from a stream in winter, though the chill
Be but a moment’s.