George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
Thou who hast
The fatal gist of beauty.
Thou who hast
The fatal gist of beauty.
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
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.
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),
One must be a god to be able to tell successes from failures
without making a mistake.
One must be a god to be able to tell successes from failures
without making a mistake.
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
In solitude, when we are least alone.
In solitude, when we are least alone.
How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins
(Not of old victors, read more
How beauteous are rouleaus! how charming chests
Containing ingots, bags of dollars, coins
(Not of old victors, all whose heads and crests
Weigh not the thin ore where their visage shines,
But) of find unclipt gold, where dully rests
Some likeness, which the glittering cirque confines,
Of modern, reigning, sterling, stupid stamp;--
Yes! ready money is Aladdin's lamp.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love read more
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.
There were his young barbarians all at play
There was their Dacian mother--he, their sire,
Butcher'd to read more
There were his young barbarians all at play
There was their Dacian mother--he, their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday.
