Lord Byron Quotes

453 Sourced Quotes

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

Lord Byron
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.

Lord Byron
Such was Zuleika, such around her shone
The nameless charms unmarked by her alone—
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the Music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,
And oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

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

Lord Byron
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;
The worm — the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

Lord Byron
I've stood upon Achilles' tomb,
And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome.

Lord Byron
Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands,
His blood-red tresses deep'ning in the sun,
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands,
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon.

Lord Byron
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
His heart was one of those which most enamour us,
Wax to receive, and marble to retain:
He was a lover of the good old school,
Who still become more constant as they cool.

Lord Byron
What is the end of fame? 'tis but to fill A certain portion of uncertain paper: Some liken it to climbing up a hill, Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapor.

Lord Byron
Shrine of the mighty! can it be
That this is all remains of thee?

Lord Byron
What makes a regiment of soldiers a more noble object of view than the same mass of mob? Their arms, their dresses, their banners, and the art and artificial symmetry of their position and movements.

Lord Byron
Hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side.

Lord Byron
Cold is the heart, fair Greece! that looks on thee,
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved;
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines removed
By British hands.

Lord Byron
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away, When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay.

Lord Byron
In short, he was a perfect cavaliero,
And to his very valet seemed a hero.

Lord Byron
The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.

Lord Byron
Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story,
Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory.

Lord Byron
Where rose the mountains, there to him were friends;
Where rolled the ocean, thereon was his home;
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, extends,
He had the passion and the power to roam.

Lord Byron
She was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all.

Lord Byron
I will keep no further journal … to prevent me returning, like a dog, to the vomit of memory.

Lord Byron
Earth! render back from out thy breast
a remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three,
To make a new Thermopylae!

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

Lord Byron
There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

Lord Byron
I have looked out
In the vast desolate night in search of him;
And when I saw gigantic shadows in
The umbrage of the walls of Eden, chequered
By the far-flashing of the cherubs' swords,
I watched for what I thought his coming: for
With fear rose longing in my heart to know
What 'twas which shook us all—but nothing came.

Lord Byron
And thus they form a group that's quite antique,
Half naked, loving, natural, and Greek.

Lord Byron
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.

Lord Byron
'Tis strange—but true; for truth is always strange;
Stranger than fiction.

Lord Byron
Is it not life, is it not the thing?—Could any man have written it—who has not lived in the world?—and tooled in a post-chaise? in a hackney coach? in a gondola? Against a wall? in a court carriage? in a vis-à-vis?—on a table?—and under it?
Of Don Juan

Lord Byron
None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possessed
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.

Lord Byron