George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice,
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
The devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice,
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
From the mingled strength of shade and light
A new creation rises to my sight,
Such heav'nly read more
From the mingled strength of shade and light
A new creation rises to my sight,
Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow,
So warm with light his blended colors glow.
. . . .
The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring
Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth.
I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth.
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
- Lord Byron (George read more
There's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
- Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron),
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and read more
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to
himself . . . that a tiger is an optical read more
If a man proves too clearly and convincingly to
himself . . . that a tiger is an optical illusion--well, he will
find out he is wrong. The tiger will himself intervene in the
discussion, in a manner which will be in every sense conclusive.
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted--they have torn me--and I bleed!
read more
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted--they have torn me--and I bleed!
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms,
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine,
read more
Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms,
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine,
To hail his father; while his little form
Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain!
The childless cherubs well might envy thee
The pleasures of a parent.
The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation,
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow;
In read more
The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation,
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow;
In fact, he had no singing education,
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow.
Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs.
Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs.
