George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,
His changing read more
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess,
The might--the majesty of Loveliness?
But these are foolish things to all the wise,
And I love wisdom more than she loves me;
read more
But these are foolish things to all the wise,
And I love wisdom more than she loves me;
My tendency is to philosophise
On most things, from a tyrant to a tree;
But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies,
What are we? and whence come we? what shall be
Our ultimate existence? What's our present?
Are questions answerless, and yet incessant.
How chang'd since last her speaking eye
Glanc'd gladness round the glitt'ring room,
Where high-born men were read more
How chang'd since last her speaking eye
Glanc'd gladness round the glitt'ring room,
Where high-born men were proud to wait--
Where Beauty watched to imitate.
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, read more
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 (George Gordon Noel Byron),
And angling too, that solitary vice,
What Izaak Walton sings or says:
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, read more
And angling too, that solitary vice,
What Izaak Walton sings or says:
The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet
Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.
For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge read more
For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.
There comes
For ever something between us and what
We deem our happiness.
There comes
For ever something between us and what
We deem our happiness.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Gone--glimmering read more
Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were;
First in the race that led to glory's goal,
They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole?
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
