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Life Is Too Short For Chess.

-Lord Byron

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Life Is Too Short

Lord Byron

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Life Is Too Short For Chess.

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Life Is Too Short

Life It Too Short

More From Lord Byron

I Have A Great Mind To Believe In Christianity For The Mere Pleasure Of Fancying I May Be Damned.

I Shall Soon Be Six-and-twenty. Is There Anything In The Future That Can Possibly Console Us For Not Being Always Twenty-five?

I Only Know We Loved In Vain; I Only Feel-farewell! Farewell!

To Have Joy, One Must Share It.

I Feel My Immortality Over Sweep All Pains, All Tears, All Time, All Fears, - And Peal, Like The Eternal Thunders Of The Deep, Into My Ears, This Truth, - Thou Livest Forever!

A Man Must Serve His Time To Every Trade, Save Censure-critics All Are Ready Made. Take Hackney'd Jokes From Miller, Got By Rote With Just Enough Learning To Misquote.

In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.

I Am Surrounded Here By Parsons And Methodists, But As You Will See, Not Infested With The Mania.

Positive Atheism

Lord Of Himself; That Heritage Of Woe!

In Itself A Thought, A Slumbering Thought Is Capable Of Years; And Curdles A Long Life Into One Hour.

I See Before Me The Gladiator Lie.

Tis An Old Lesson; Time Approves It True, And Those Who Know It Best, Deplore It Most; When All Is Won That All Desire To Woo, The Paltry Prize Is Hardly Worth The Cost.

No Hand Can Make The Clock Strike For Me The Hours That Are Passed.

The French Courage Proceeds From Vanity

Of All Tales 'tis The Saddest--and More Sad, Because It Makes Us Smile.

Smiles Form The Channels Of A Future Tear.

Venice Once Was Dear, The Pleasant Place Of All Festivity, The Revel Of The Earth, The Masque Of Italy.

History - The Devil's Scripture

Nothing So Fretful, So Despicable As A Scribbler, See What I Am, And What A Parcel Of Scoundrels I Have Brought About My Ears, And What Language I Have Been Obliged To Treat Them With To Deal With Them In Their Own Way; - All This Comes Of Authorship.

America Is A Model Of Force And Freedom And Moderation - With All The Coarseness And Rudeness Of Its People.

What A Strange Thing Is Man! And What A Stranger Is Woman.

Age Shakes Athena's Tower, But Spares Gray Marathon.

Friendship Is Love Without His Wings!

If I Don't Write To Empty My Mind, I Go Mad.

Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer For Other's Weal Avail'd On High, Mine Will Not All Be Lost In Air, But Waft Thy Name Beyond The Sky.

Despair And Genius Are Too Oft Connected

A Quiet Conscience Makes One So Serene.

The Place Is Very Well And Quiet And The Children Only Scream In A Low Voice.

There Are Some Feelings Time Cannot Benumb, Nor Torture Shake.

Italia! O Italia! Thou Who Hast The Fatal Gift Of Beauty.

I Doubt Sometimes Whether A Quiet And Unagitated Life Would Have Suited Me - Yet I Sometimes Long For It.

Be Thou The Rainbow In The Storms Of Life. The Evening Beam That Smiles The Clouds Away, And Tints Tomorrow With Prophetic Ray.

'tis Sweet To Know There Is An Eye Will Mark Our Coming, And Look Brighter When We Come.

Never To Talk To Ones Self Is A Form Of Hypocrisy

Happiness Was Born A Twin.

Tis The Perception Of The Beautiful, A Fine Extension Of The Faculties, Platonic, Universal, Wonderful, Drawn From The Stars, And Filtered Through The Skies, Without Which Life Would Be Extremely Dull

No Ear Can Hear Nor Tongue Can Tell The Tortures Of The Inward Hell!

...and These Vicissitudes Come Best In Youth; For When They Happen At A Riper Age, People Are Apt To Blame The Fates, Forsooth, And Wonder Providence Is Not More Sage. Adversity Is The First Path To Truth: He Who Hath Proved War, Storm, Or Woman's Rage, Whether His Winters Be Eighteen Or Eighty, Has Won Experience Which Is Deem'd So Weighty.

The Simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, Both By Precept And Example, Shows / That Prose Is Verse, And Verse Is Merely Prose.

I Am No Platonist, I Am Nothing At All; But I Would Sooner Be A Paulician, Manichean, Spinozist, Gentile, Pyrrhonian, Zoroastrian, Than One Of The Seventy-two Villainous Sects Who Are Tearing Each Other To Pieces For The Love Of The Lord And Hatred Of Each Other.

A Timid Mind Is Apt To Mistake Every Scratch For A Mortal Wound.

Oh! Might I Kiss Those Eyes Of Fire, A Million Scarce Would Quench Desire; Still Would I Steep My Lips In Bliss, And Dwell An Age On Every Kiss; Nor Then My Soul Should Sated Be, Still Would I Kiss And Cling To Thee: Nought Should My Kiss From Thine Dissever, Still Would We Kiss And Kiss For Ever; E'en Though The Numbers Did Exceed The Yellow Harvest's Countless Seed; To Part Would Be A Vain Endeavour: Could I Desist? -ah! Never-never.

Let None Think To Fly The Danger For Soon Or Late Love Is His Own Avenger.

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods, There Is Rapture In The Lonely Shore, There Is Society Where None Intrudes, By The Deep Sea, And Music In Its Roar; I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

Switzerland Is A Curst, Selfish, Swinish Country Of Brutes, Placed In The Most Romantic Region Of The World.

Oh, Nature's Noblest Gift, My Grey Goose Quill, Slave Of My Thoughts, Obedient To My Will, Torn From The Parent Bird To Form A Pen, That Mighty Instrument Of Little Men.

We Have Fools In All Sects, And Impostors In Most; Why Should I Believe Mysteries No One Can Understand, Because Written By Men Who Chose To Mistake Madness For Inspiration And Style Themselves Evangelicals?

Eternal Spirit Of The Chainless Mind! Brightest In Dungeons, Liberty! Thou Art, For There Thy Habitation Is The Heart-- The Heart Which Love Of Thee Alone Can Bind; And When Thy Sons To Fetters Are Consign'd-- To Fetters And Damp Vault's Dayless Gloom, Their Country Conquers With Their Martyrdom.

Twas Twilight, And The Sunless Day Went Down Over The Waste Of Waters; Like A Veil, Which, If Withdrawn, Would But Disclose The Frown Of One Whose Hate Is Mask'd But To Assail.

I Am Acquainted With No Immaterial Sensuality So Delightful As Good Acting.

A Celebrity Is One Who Is Known To Many Persons He Is Glad He Doesn't Know.

My Beautiful, My Own My Only Venice-this Is Breath! Thy Breeze Thine Adrian Sea-breeze, How It Fans My Face! Thy Very Winds Feel Native To My Veins, And Cool Them Into Calmness!

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar? The Hearts Bleed Longest, And Heals But To Wear That Which Disfigures It.

Wounds And Scars

Sweet Is Old Wine In Bottles, Ale In Barrels.

Send Me No More Reviews Of Any Kind. I Will Read No More Of Evil Or Good In That Line. Walter Scott Has Not Read A Review Of Himself For Thirteen Years .

That Famish'd People Must Be Slowly Nurst, And Fed By Spoonfuls, Else They Always Burst.

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away; A Single Laugh Demolish'd The Right Arm Of His Own Country.

If Ancient Tales Say True, Nor Wrong These Holy Men.

Man's Love Is Of Man's Life A Part; It Is A Woman's Whole Existence. In Her First Passion, A Woman Loves Her Lover, In All The Others All She Loves Is Love.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

Pleasure's A Sin, And Sometimes Sin's A Pleasure.

Have Not All Past Human Beings Parted, And Must Not All The Present, One Day Part?

Tis Strange,-but True; For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction: If It Could Be Told, How Much Would Novels Gain By The Exchange! How Differently The World Would Men Behold!

I Love The Language, It Sounds As If It Should Be Writ On Satin With Syllables Which Breathe Of The Sweet South

There Is No Such Thing As A Life Of Passion Any More Than A Continuous Earthquake, Or An Eternal Fever. Besides, Who Would Ever Shave Themselves In Such A State?

The Stars Are Forth, The Moon Above The Tops Of The Snow-shining Mountains--beautiful! I Linger Yet With Nature, For The Night Hath Been To Me A More Familiar Face Than That Of Man, And In Her Starry Shade Of Dim And Solitary Loveliness I Learned The Language Of Another World.

Let Us Have Wine And Woman, Mirth And Laughter, Sermons And Soda Water The Day After. Man, Being Reasonable, Must Get Drunk; The Best Of Life Is But Intoxication: Glory, The Grape, Love, Gold, In These Are Sunk The Hopes Of All Men, And Of Every Nation; Without Their Sap, How Branchless Were The Trunk Of Life's Strange Tree, So Fruitful On Occasion: But To Return--get Very Drunk; And When You Wake With Head-ache, You Shall See What Then.

But I Had Not Quite Fixed Whether To Make Him [don Juan] End In Hell-or In An Unhappy Marriage,-not Knowing Which Would Be The Severest.

I Awoke One Day To Find Myself Famous.

Tis Said That Persons Living On Annuities Are Longer Lived Than Others.

I Speak Not Of Men's Creeds—they Rest Between Man And His Maker.

Talent May Be In Time Forgiven, But Genius Never

I Live Not In Myself, But I Become Portion Of That Around Me: And To Me High Mountains Are A Feeling, But The Hum Of Human Cities Torture.

On With The Dance! Let Joy Be Unconfin'd No Sleep Till Morn, When Youth And Pleasure Meet To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

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.

Eat, Drink And Love...the Rest Is Not Worth A Nickel

A Rose With All Its Sweetest Leaves Yet Folded.

Let No Man Grumble When His Friends Fall Off, As They Will Do Like Leaves At The First Breeze; When Your Affairs Come Round, One Way Or T'other, Go To The Coffee House, And Take Another.

But There Are Wanderers O'er Eternity Whose Bark Drives On And On, And Anchor'd Ne'er Shall Be.

There Was A Sound Of Revelry By Night, And Belgium's Capital Had Gathered Then Her Beauty And Her Chivalry, And Bright The Lamps Shone O'er Fair Women And Brave Men. A Thousand Hearts Beat Happily; And When Music Arose With Its Voluptuous Swell, Soft Eyes Looked Love To Eyes Which Spake Again, And All Went Merry As A Marriage Bell. But Hush! Hark! A Deep Sound Strikes Like A Rising Knell!

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

Ecclesiastes Said That "all Is Vanity," Most Modern Preachers Say The Same, Or Show It By Their Examples Of True Christianity: In Short, All Know, Or Very Short May Know It.

The Lapse Of Ages Changes All Things - Time - Language - The Earth - The Bounds Of The Sea - The Stars Of The Sky, And Everything 'about, Around, And Underneath' Man, Except Man Himself, Who Has Always Been And Always Will Be, An Unlucky Rascal. The Infinite Variety Of Lives Conduct But To Death, And The Infinity Of Wishes Lead But To Disappointment. All The Discoveries Which Have Yet Been Made Have Multiplied Little But Existence.

There Is No Passion, More Spectral Or Fantastical Than Hate, Not Even Its Opposite, Love, So Peoples Air, With Phantoms, As This Madness Of The Heart.

That Low Vice, Curiosity!

Till Taught By Pain, Men Know Not Water's Worth.

Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

The Drying Up A Single Tear Has More, Of Honest Fame, Than Shedding Seas Of Gore.

And What Is Writ Is Writ - / Would It Were Worthier!

Grief Should Be The Instructor Of The Wise; Sorrow Is Knowledge.

I Am So Convinced Of The Advantages Of Looking At Mankind Instead Of Reading About Them, . . . That I Think There Should Be A Law Amongst Us To Set Our Young Men Abroad For A Term Among The Few Allies Our Wars Have Left Us.

Old Man! 'tis Not Difficult To Die.

Better To Sink Beneath The Shock Than Moulder Piecemeal On The Rock!

So Do The Dark In Soul Expire, Or Live Like Scorpion Girt By Fire; So Writhes The Mind Remorse Hath Riven, Unfit For Earth, Undoom'd For Heaven, Darkness Above, Despair Beneath, Around It Flame, Within It Death.

So Sweet The Blush Of Bashfulness, E'en Pity Scarce Can Wish It Less!

Since Eve Ate The Apple, Much Depends On Dinner.

The World Is A Bundle Of Hay, Mankind Are The Asses That Pull, Each Tugs In A Different Way And The Greatest Of All Is John Bull!

Men Think Highly Of Those Who Rise Rapidly In The World; Whereas Nothing Rises Quicker Than Dust, Straw, And Feathers.

I Cannot Help Thinking That The Menace Of Hell Makes As Many Devils As The Severe Penal Codes Of Inhuman Humanity Make Villains.

Good But Rarely Came From Good Advice.

As Falls The Dew On Quenchless Sands, Blood Only Serves To Wash Ambition's Hands.

Armenian Is The Language To Speak With God.

I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature 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.

All Human History Attests That Happiness For Man, - The Hungry Sinner! - Since Eve Ate Apples, Much Depends On Dinner. ~lord Byron, Don Juan, Canto Xiii, Stanza 99

What Men Call Gallantry, And Gods Adultery, Is Much More Common Where The Climate's Sultry.

On The Ear Drops The Light Drip Of The Suspended Oar.

Land Of Lost Gods And Godlike Men.

The Art Of Angling, The Cruelest, The Coldest And The Stupidest Of Pretended Sports.

Of Religion I Know Nothing -- At Least, In Its Favor.

Positive Atheism

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away.

What Is Fame? The Advantage Of Being Known By People Of Whom You Yourself Know Nothing, And For Whom You Care As Little.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar?

Wounds And Scars

One Certainly Has A Soul; But How It Came To Allow Itself To Be Enclosed In A Body Is More Than I Can Imagine.

The Cardinal Is At His Wit's End - It Is True That He Had Not Far To Go.

Let Us Have Wine And Women, Mirth And Laughter, Sermons And Soda Water The Day After.

All Who Joy Would Win Must Share It. Happiness Was Born A Twin.

Tis Pleasant Purchasing Our Fellow-creatures; And All Are To Be Sold, If You Consider Their Passions, And Are Dext'rous; Some By Features Are Brought Up, Others By A Warlike Leader; Some By A Place--as Tend Their Years Or Natures; The Most By Ready Cash--but All Have Prices, From Crowns To Kicks, According To Their Vices.

May Moorland Weavers Boast Pindaric Skill, And Tailors' Lays Be Longer Than Their Bill! While Punctual Beaux Reward The Grateful Notes, And Pay For Poems--when They Pay For Coats.

Letter Writing Is The Only Device Combining Solitude With Good Company.

He Who Surpasses Or Subdues Mankind, Must Look Down On The Hate Of Those Below.

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

The Sight Of Blood To Crowds Begets The Thirst Of More, As The First Wine-cup Leads To The Long Revel.

Dim With The Mist Of Years, Gray Flits The Shade Of Power.

And Then He Danced,-all Foreigners Excel The Serious Angels In The Eloquence Of Pantomime;-he Danced, I Say, Right Well, With Emphasis, And A'so With Good Sense-a Thing In Footing Indispensable: He Danced Without Theatrical Pretence, Not Like A Ballet-master In The Van Of His Drill'd Nymphs, But Like A Gentleman.

A Good Coach Encourages The Same Type Of Resilience In The People They Work With. They Encourage Them To Take Risks. If The Risk Results In Failure, They Help All People To Learn From The Mistake And Then Go On To Try Another Way.

Few Things Surpass Old Wine; And They May Preach Who Please, The More Because They Preach In Vain

We Are All Selfish And I No More Trust Myself Than Others With A Good Motive.

Ah, Nut-brown Partridges! Ah, Brilliant Pheasants! And Ah, Ye Poachers!--'tis No Sport For Peasants.

The Poetry Of Speech.

Years Steal Fire From The Mind As Vigor From The Limb; And Life's Enchanted Cup But Sparkles Near The Brim.

The Lapse Of Ages Changes All Things - Time, Language, The Earth, The Bounds Of The Sea, The Stars Of The Sky, And Every Thing About, Around, And Underneath Man, Except Man Himself.

But I Hate Things All Fiction... There Should Always Be Some Foundation Of Fact For The Most Airy Fabric - And Pure Invention Is But The Talent Of A Liar.

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

Knowledge Is Not Happiness, And Science But An Exchange Of Ignorance For That Which Is Another Kind Of Ignorance.

My Slumbers--if I Slumber--are Not Sleep, But A Continuance Of Enduring Thought, Which Then I Can Resist Not: In My Heart There Is A Vigil, And These Eyes But Close To Look Within; And Yet I Live, And Bear The Aspect And The Form Of Breathing Men.

Always Laugh When You Can; It Is Cheap Medicine. Merriment Is A Philosophy Not Well Understood. It Is The Sunny Side Of Existence.

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.

There's Naught, No Doubt, So Much The Spirit Calms As Rum And True Religion.

Yet He Was Jealous, Though He Did Not Show It, For Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

Which Cheers The Sad, Revives The Old, Inspires The Young, Makes Weariness Forget His Toil, And Fear Her Danger; Opens A New World When This, The Present, Palls.

It Has Been Said That The Immortality Of The Soul Is A Grand Peut-tre -but Still It Is A Grand One. Everybody Clings To It -the Stupidest, And Dullest, And Wickedest Of Human Bipeds Is Still Persuaded That He Is Immortal.

In The Desert A Fountain Is Springing, In The Wide Waste There Still Is A Tree, And A Bird In The Solitude Singing, Which Speaks To My Spirit Of Thee

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.

Just As Old Age Is Creeping On Space, And Clouds Come O'er The Sunset Of Our Day, They Kindly Leave Us, Though Not Quite Alone, But In Good Company--the Gout Or Stone.

Fools Are My Theme, Let Satire Be My Song.

Man, Being Reasonable, Must Get Drunk; The Best Of Life Is But Intoxication.

It Is Very Iniquitous To Make Me Pay My Debts - You Have No Idea Of The Pain It Gives One.

To Be Perfectly Original One Should Think Much And Read Little, And This Is Impossible, For One Must Have Read Before One Has Learnt To Think.

Kill A Man's Family, And He May Brook It, But Keep Your Hands Out Of His Breeches' Pocket.

The Cold, The Changed, Perchance The Dead, Anew, The Mourn'd, The Loved, The Lost,-too Many, Yet How Few!

I Came To Realize Clearly That The Mind Is No Other Than The Mountain And The Rivers And The Great Wide Earth, The Sun And The Moon And The Sky”.

[my Advice] Will One Day Be Found With Other Relics Of 'a Former World,' When This World Shall Be Former, Underground, Thrown Topsy-turvy, Twisted, Crisped, And Curled, Baked, Fried Or Burnt, Turned Inside-out, Or Drowned, Like All The Worlds Before, Which Have Been Hurled First Out Of, And Then Back Again To Chaos, The Superstratum Which Will Overlay Us.

History, With All Her Volumes Vast, Hath But One Page.

The Mind Can Make Substance, And People Planets Of Its Own With Beings Brighter Than Have Been, And Give A Breath To Forms Which Can Outlive All Flesh.

No More We Meet In Yonder Bowers Absence Has Made Me Prone To Roving; But Older, Firmer Hearts Than Ours, Have Found Monotony In Loving.

Like Other Parties Of The Kind, It Was First Silent, Then Talky, Then Argumentative, Then Disputatious, Then Unintelligible, Then Altogether, Then Inarticulate, And Then Drunk. When We Had Reached The Last Step Of This Glorious Ladder, It Was Difficult To Get Down Again Without Stumbling.

To Withdraw Myself From Myself Has Ever Been My Sole, My Entire, My Sincere Motive In Scribbling At All.

Here's A Sigh To Those Who Love Me,and A Smile To Those Who Hate;and, Whatever Sky's Above Me,here's A Heart For Every Fate.

It Is By Far The Most Elegant Worship, Hardly Excepting The Greek Mythology. What With Incense, Pictures, Statues, Altars, Shrines, Relics, And The Real Presence, Confession, Absolution, - There Is Something Sensible To Grasp At. Besides, It Leaves No Possibility Of Doubt; For Those Who Swallow Their Deity, Really And Truly, In Transubstantiation, Can Hardly Find Any Thing Else Otherwise Than Easy Of Digestion.

That Music In Itself, Whose Sounds Are Song, The Poetry Of Speech.

I Am Not Now That Which I Have Been.

Yet I Did Love Thee To The Last, As Ferverently As Thou, Who Didst Not Change Through All The Past, And Canst Not Alter Now.

The Devil Hath Not, In All His Quiver's Choice, An Arrow For The Heart Like A Sweet Voice.

But Stories Somehow Lengthen When Begun.

Self-love For Ever Creeps Out, Like A Snake, To Sting Anything Which Happens To Stumble Upon It.

A Mistress Never Is Nor Can Be A Friend. While You Agree, You Are Lovers; And When It Is Over, Anything But Friends.

Fills The Air Around With Beauty.

There Is A Tear For All Who Die, A Mourner O'er The Humblest Grave.

When Newton Saw An Apple Fall, He Found In That Slight Startle From His Contemplation- 'tis Said (for I'll Not Answer Above Ground For Any Sage's Creed Or Calculation)- A Mode Of Proving That The Earth Turn'd Round In A Most Natural Whirl, Called 'gravitation'; And This Is The Sole Mortal Who Could Grapple, Since Adam, With A Fall, Or With An Apple.

I Was Accused Of Every Monstrous Vice By Public Rumour And Private Rancour; My Name, Which Had Been A Knightly Or Noble One, Was Tainted. I Felt That, If What Was Whispered, And Muttered, And Murmured, Was True, I Was Unfit For England; If False, England Was Unfit For Me.

Bologna Is Celebrated For Producing Popes, Painters, And Sausage.

Reason Is So Unreasonable, That Few People Can Say They Are In Possession Of It.

Nothing So Difficult As A Beginning In Poesy, Unless Perhaps The End.

I Am Never Long, Even In The Society Of Her I Love, Without Yearning For The Company Of My Lamp And My Library.

By Heaven! It Is A Splendid Sight To See For One Who Hath No Friend, No Brother There.

Nothing Can Confound A Wise Man More Than Laughter From A Dunce.

But Words Are Things, And A Small Drop Of Ink, Falling Like Dew, Upon A Thought, Produces That Which Makes Thousands, Perhaps Millions, Think.

In Commitment, We Dash The Hopes Of A Thousand Potential Selves.

With Thee All Tales Are Sweet; Each Clime Has Charms; Earth - Sea Alike - Our World Within Our Arms.

The Sky Is Changed,-and Such A Change! O Night And Storm And Darkness! Ye Are Wondrous Strong, Yet Lovely In Your Strength, As Is The Light Of A Dark Eye In Woman! Far Along, From Peak To Peak, The Rattling Crags Among, Leaps The Live Thunder.

The Great Object Of Life Is Sensation - To Feel That We Exist - Even Though In Pain - It Is This "craving Void" Which Drives Us To Gaming - To Battle - To Travel - To Intemperate But Keenly Felt Pursuits Of Every Description Whose Principal Attraction Is The Agitation Inseparable From Their Accomplishment.

A Sort Of Hostile Transaction, Very Necessary To Keep The World Going, But By No Means A Sinecure To The Parties Concerned.

Romances I Ne'er Read Like Those I Have Seen.

The Light Of Love, The Purity Of Grace, The Mind, The Music Breathing From Her Face, The Heart Whose Softness Harmonised The Whole — And, Oh! That Eye Was In Itself A Soul!

They Truly Mourn, That Mourn Without A Witness.

Egeria! Sweet Creation Of Some Heart Which Found No Mortal Resting-place So Fair As Thine Ideal Breast.

Oh That The Desert Were My Dwelling-place, With One Fair Spirit For My Minister

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods.

Oh, Mirth And Innocence! Oh, Milk And Water! Ye Happy Mixture Of More Happy Days!

Whenever I Meet With Anything Agreeable In This World It Surprises Me So Much - And Pleases Me So Much (when My Passions Are Not Interested In One Way Or The Other) That I Go On Wondering For A Week To Come.

She Was Like Me In Lineaments-- Her Eyes Her Hair, Her Features, All, To The Very Tone Even Of Her Voice, They Said Were Like To Mine; But Soften'd All, And Temper'd Into Beauty; She Had The Same Lone Thoughts And Wanderings, The Quest Of Hidden Knowledge, And A Mind To Comprehend The Universe: Nor These Alone, But With Them Gentler Powers Than Mine, Pity, And Smiles, And Tears-- Which I Had Not; And Tenderness-- But That I Had For Her; Humility-- And That I Never Had. Her Faults Were Mine-- Her Virtues Were Her Own-- I Loved Her, And Destroy'd Her!

Ada! Sole Daughter Of My House And Heart.

Accursed Be The City Where The Laws Would Stifle Nature's!

And Gentle Winds And Waters Near, Make Music To The Lonely Ear.

I Really Cannot Know Whether I Am Or Am Not The Genius You Are Pleased To Call Me, But I Am Very Willing To Put Up With The Mistake, If It Be One.

Tis Pleasing To Be School'd In A Strange Tongue By Female Lips And Eyes--that Is, I Mean, When Both The Teacher And The Taught Are Young, As Was The Case, At Least, Where I Have Been; They Smile So When One's Right; And When One's Wrong They Smile Still More.

There Is No Traitor Like Him Whose Domestic Treason Plants The Poniard Within The Breast That Trusted To His Truth

But First, On Earth As Vampire Sent, Thy Corse Shall From Its Tomb Be Rent, Then Ghastly Haunt Thy Native Place, And Suck The Blood Of All Thy Race. There From Thy Daughter, Sister, Wife, At Midnight Drain The Stream Of Life, Yet Loathe The Banquet Which Perforce Must Feed Thy Livid Living Corse. Thy Victims Ere They Yet Expire Shall Know The Demon For Their Sire, As Cursing Thee, Thou Cursing Them, Thy Flowers Are Withered On The Stem.

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