Lord Byron Quotes

Letter writing is the only device combining solitude with good company.

I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil.

So much alarmed that she is quite alarming

Better to sink beneath the shock
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock!

Who knows whether, when a comet shall approach this globe to destroy it, as it often has been and will be destroyed, men will not tear rocks from their foundations by means of steam, and hurl mountains, as the giants are said to have done, against the flaming mass?—and then we shall have traditions of Titans again, and of wars with Heaven.

[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.

My Dearest Theresa,

I have read this book in your garden, my love, you were absent, or else I could not have read it. It is a favourite book of mine. You will not understand these English words, and others will not understand them, which is the reason I have not scrawled them in Italian. But you will recognize the handwriting of him who passionately loved you, and you will divine that, over a book that was yours, he could only think of love.
In that word, beautiful in all languages, but most so in yours, Amor mio, is comprised my existence here and thereafter. I feel I exist here, and I feel that I shall exist hereafter – to what purpose you will decide; my destiny rests with you, and you are a woman, eighteen years of age, and two out of a convent, I wish you had stayed there, with all my heart, or at least, that I had never met you in your married state.
But all this is too late. I love you, and you love me, at least, you say so, and act as if you did so, which last is a great consolation in all events. But I more than love you, and cannot cease to love you. Think of me, sometimes, when the Alps and ocean divide us, but they never will, unless you wish it.

And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

There is something pagan in me that I cannot shake off. In short, I deny nothing, but doubt everything.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires,-'tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.

Jack was embarrassed — never hero more,
And as he knew not what to say, he swore.

You take things coolly, sir,’ said Juan. ‘Why,’
Replied the other, ‘what can a man do?
There still are many rainbows in your sky,
But mine have vanish’d. All, when life is new,
Commence with feelings warm, and prospects high;
But time strips our illusions of their hue,
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake
Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.

Light be the turf of thy tomb!
May its verdure like emeralds be:
There should not be the shadow of gloom
In aught that reminds us of thee:
Young flowers, and an evergreen tree
May spring from the spot of thy rest;
But not cypress nor yew let us see;
For why should we mourn for the blest?

I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.

Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease!
He makes a solitude, and calls it — peace!