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O Thou Beautiful And Unimaginable Ether! And Ye Multiplying Masses Of Increased And Still Increasing Lights! What Are Ye? What Is This Blue Wilderness Of Interminable Air, Where Ye Roll Along, As I Have Seen The Leaves Along The Limpid Streams Of Eden? Is Your Course Measur'd For Ye? Or Do Ye Sweep On In Your Unbounded Revelry Through An Aerial Universe Of Endless Expansion,--at Which My Soul Aches To Think,-- Intoxicated With Eternity.

-Lord Byron

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O Thou Beautiful And

Lord Byron

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O Thou Beautiful And Unimaginable Ether! And Ye Multiplying Masses Of Increased And Still Increasing Lights! What Are Ye? What Is This Blue Wilderness Of Interminable Air, Where Ye Roll Along, As I Have Seen The Leaves Along The Limpid Streams Of Eden? Is Your Course Measur'd For Ye? Or Do Ye Sweep On In Your Unbounded Revelry Through An Aerial Universe Of Endless Expansion,--at Which My Soul Aches To Think,-- Intoxicated With Eternity.

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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.

A Rose With All Its Sweetest Leaves Yet Folded.

I Have A Notion That Gamblers Are As Happy As Most People - Being Always Excited.

Here Lies Interred In The Eternity Of The Past, From Whence There Is No Resurrection For The Days - Whatever There May Be For The Dust - The Thirty-third Year Of An Ill-spent Life, Which, After A Lingering Disease Of Many Months Sank Into A Lethargy, And Expired, January 22d, 1821, A.d. Leaving A Successor Inconsolable For The Very Loss Which Occasioned Its Existence.

In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.

For Pleasures Past I Do Not Grieve, Nor Perils Gathering Near; My Greatest Grief Is That I Leave Nothing That Claims A Tear.

The French Courage Proceeds From Vanity

A Material Resurrection Seems Strange And Even Absurd Except For Purposes Of Punishment, And All Punishment Which Is To Revenge Rather Than Correct Must Be Morally Wrong, And When The World Is At An End, What Moral Or Warning Purpose Can Eternal Tortures Answer?

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

But At Sixteen The Conscience Rarely Gnaws So Much, As When We Call Our Old Debts In At Sixty Years, And Draw The Accounts Of Evil, And Find A Deuced Balance With The Devil.

The Niobe Of Nations! There She Stands.

Marriage, From Love, Like Vinegar From Wine-- A Sad, Sour Sober Beverage--by Time Is Sharpened From Its High Celestial Flavor Down To A Very Homely Household Savor.

My Native Land, Good Night!

Out Of Chaos God Made A World, And Out Of High Passions Comes A People.

Opinions Are Made To Be Changed Or How Is Truth To Be Got At?

It Is Singular How Soon We Lose The Impression Of What Ceases To Be Constantly Before Us. A Year Impairs, A Luster Obliterates. There Is Little Distinct Left Without An Effort Of Memory, Then Indeed The Lights Are Rekindled For A Moment - But Who Can Be Sure That The Imagination Is Not The Torch-bearer?

Good Work And Joyous Play Go Hand In Hand. When Play Stops, Old Age Begins. Play Keeps You From Taking Life Too Seriously.

Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.

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

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

Books, Manuals, Directives, Regulations. The Geometries That Circumscribe Your Working Life Draw Norrower And Norrower Until Nothing Fits Inside Them Anymore.

When Bishop Berkeley Said "there Was No Matter." And Proved It--'t Was No Matter What He Said.

That Low Vice, Curiosity!

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

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.

All Heaven And Earth Are Still, Though Not In Sleep, But Breathless, As We Grow When Feeling Most.

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

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.

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.

I Should Be Very Willing To Redress Men Wrongs, And Rather Check Than Punish Crimes, Had Not Cervantes, In That All Too True Tale Of Quixote, Shown How All Such Efforts Fail.

A Thousand Years May Scare Form A State. An Hour May Lay It In Ruins.

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

Roll On, Deep And Dark Blue Ocean, Roll. Ten Thousand Fleets Sweep Over Thee In Vain. Man Marks The Earth With Ruin, But His Control Stops With The Shore.

Roll On, Thou Deep And Dark Blue Ocean

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

I Learned To Love Despair.

There Are Four Questions Of Value In Life, Don Octavio. What Is Sacred? Of What Is The Spirit Made? What Is Worth Living For And What Is Worth Dying For? The Answer To Each Is The Same. Only Love.

O Thou Beautiful And Unimaginable Ether! And Ye Multiplying Masses Of Increased And Still Increasing Lights! What Are Ye? What Is This Blue Wilderness Of Interminable Air, Where Ye Roll Along, As I Have Seen The Leaves Along The Limpid Streams Of Eden? Is Your Course Measur'd For Ye? Or Do Ye Sweep On In Your Unbounded Revelry Through An Aerial Universe Of Endless Expansion,--at Which My Soul Aches To Think,-- Intoxicated With Eternity.

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

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

I Stood In Venice, On The Bridge Of Sighs; A Palace And A Prison On Each Hand; I Saw From Out The Wave Of Her Structure's Rise As From The Stroke Of The Enchanter's Wand: A Thousand Years Their Cloudy Wings Expand Around Me, And A Dying Glory Smiles O'er The Far Times, When Many A Subject Land Look'd To The Winged Lion's Marble Pines, Where Venice Sate In State, Throned On Her Hundred Isles.

Absence - That Common Cure Of Love.

Man Marks The Earth With Ruin - His Control Stops With The Shore.

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

They Say That Hope Is Happiness But Genuine Love Must Prize The Past; And Mem'ry Wakes The Thoughts That Bless: They Rose First -- They Set The Last. And All That Mem'ry Loves The Most Was Once Our Only Hope To Be: And All That Hope Adored And Lost Hath Melted Into Memory. Alas! It Is Delusion All-- The Future Cheats Us From Afar: Nor Can We Be What We Recall, Nor Dare We Think On What We Are.

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.

Damn Description, It Is Always Disgusting.

Think You, If Laura Had Been Petrarch's Wife, He Would Have Written Sonnets All His Life?.

Let Not His Mode Of Raising Cash Seem Strange, Although He Fleeced The Flags Of Every Nation, For Into A Prime Minister But Change His Title, And 'tis Nothing But Taxation.

I Depart, Whither I Know Not; But The Hour's Gone By When Albion's Lessening Shores Could Grieve Or Glad Mine Eye.

Christians Have Burnt Each Other, Quite Persuaded. That All The Apostles Would Have Done As They Did.

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.

I Do Detest Everything Which Is Not Perfectly Mutual.

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

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

Man Is In Part Divine, A Troubled Stream From A Pure Source.

You Have To Have A Passion For Your Work. How Can We Expect People To Be Passionate If You, As Their Coach, Does Not Have A Passion? Coaching Has To Be Something That Gives You Passion And Energy.

Always Laugh When You Can. It Is Cheap Medicine.

Hearts Will Break - Yet Brokenly, Live On.

Constancy... That Small Change Of Love, Which People Exact So Rigidly, Receive In Such Counterfeit Coin, And Repay In Baser Metal.

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.

Armenian Is The Language To Speak With God.

What Should I Have Known Or Written Had I Been A Quiet, Mercantile Politician Or A Lord In Waiting? A Man Must Travel, And Turmoil, Or There Is No Existence.

It Is Not One Man Nor A Million, But The Spirit Of Liberty That Must Be Preserved. The Waves Which Dash Upon The Shore Are, One By One, Broken, But The Ocean Conquers Nevertheless. It Overwhelms The Armada, It Wears Out The Rock. In Like Manner, Whatever The Struggle Of Individuals, The Great Cause Will Gather Strength.

Tis Sweet To Listen As The Night Winds Creep From Leaf To Leaf.

Oh, Talk Not To Me Of A Name Great In Story; The Days Of Our Youth Are The Days Of Our Glory; And The Myrtle And Ivy Of Sweet Two-and-twenty Are Worth All Your Laurels, Though Ever So Plenty.

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

There Is Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears.

You Don't Love A Woman Because She Is Beautiful, But She Is Beautiful Because You Love Her. Never Underestimate The Power Of Love. The Way To Love Anything Is To Realize It May Be Lost. The Heart Has Its Reasons That Reason Does Not Know At All. Music Is Love In Search Of A Word. There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods; There Is A Rapture On The Lonely Shore; There Is Society, Where None Intrudes, By The Deep Sea, And Music In Its Roar.

To What Gulfs A Single Deviation From The Track Of Human Duties Leads Even Those Who Claim The Homage Of Mankind As Their Born Due, And Find It, Till They Forfeit It Themselves!

It Is When We Think We Lead That We Are Most Led.

The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

I Am Always Most Religious Upon A Sunshiny Day.

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

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

The 'good Old Times' - All Times When Old Are Good.

Oh Who Can Tell, Save He Whose Heart Hath Tried.

Such Hath It Been--shall Be--beneath The Sun The Many Still Must Labour For The One.

Life Is Too Short For Chess.

Life Is Too Short

Life It Too Short

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.

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.

Society Is Now One Polished Horde, Formed Of Two Mighty Tries, The Bores And Bored.

I Stood Among Them, But Not Of Them: In A Shroud Of Thoughts Which Were Not Their Thoughts.

What Is The Worst Of Woes That Wait On Age? What Stamps The Wrinkle Deeper On The Brow? To View Each Loved One Blotted From Life's Page, And Be Alone On Earth, As I Am Now.

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.

I Am About To Be Married, And Am Of Course In All The Misery Of A Man In Pursuit Of Happiness.

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

My Boat Is On The Shore, And My Bark Is On The Sea.

Then Rose From Sea To Sky The Wild Farewell Then Shriek'd The Timid, And Stood Still The Brave, Then Some Leap'd Overboard With Fearful Yell, As Eager To Anticipate Their Grave.

A Legal Broom's A Moral Chimney-sweeper, And That's The Reason He Himself's So Dirty

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

And I Would Hear Yet Once Before I Perish The Voice Which Was My Music... Speak To Me!

'tis Very Certain The Desire Of Life Prolongs It.

This Place Is The Devil, Or At Least His Principal Residence, They Call It The University, But Any Other Appellation Would Have Suited It Much Better, For Study Is The Last Pursuit Of The Society; The Master Eats, Drinks, And Sleeps, The Fellows Drink, Dispute And Pun, The Employments Of The Undergraduates You Will Probably Conjecture Without My Description.

I Love Not Man The Less, But Nature More.

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.

For What Were All These Country Patriots Born? To Hunt, And Vote, And Raise The Price Of Corn?

Shelley Is Truth Itself And Honour Itself Notwithstanding His Out-of-the-way Notions About Religion.

And If I Laugh At Any Mortal Thing, 'tis That I May Not Weep.

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.

So The Struck Eagle, Stretch'd Upon The Plain, No More Through Rolling Clouds To Soar Again, View'd His Own Feather On The Fatal Dart, And Wing'd The Shaft That Quiver'd In His Heart.

Why Do They Call Me Misanthrope? Because They Hate Me, Not I Them.

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!

The Great Art Of Life Is Sensation, To Feel That We Exist, Even In Pain.

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

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

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

A Pretty Woman Is A Welcome Guest.

The Castled Crag Of Drachenfels, Frowns O'er The Wide And Winding Rhine, Whose Breast Of Waters Broadly Swells Between The Banks Which Bear The Vine, And Hills All Rich With Blossom'd Trees, And Fields Which Promise Corn And Wine, And Scatter'd Cities Crowning These, Whose Far White Walls Along Them Shine.

Oh, Christ! It Is A Goodly Sight To See What Heaven Hath Done For This Delicious Land!

Sweet Is Old Wine In Bottles, Ale In Barrels.

The Reason That Adulation Is Not Displeasing Is That, Though Untrue, It Shows One To Be Of Consequence Enough, In One Way Or Other, To Induce People To Lie.

When We Two Parted In Silence And Tears, Half Broken-hearted, To Sever For Years.

Scion Of Chiefs And Monarchs, Where Art Thou? Fond Hope Of Many Nations, Art Thou Dead? Could Not The Grave Forget Thee, And Lay Low Some Less Majestic, Less Beloved Head?

Our Life Is Two Fold Sleep Hath Its Own World, A Boundary Between The Things Misnamed Death And Existence Sleep Hath Its Own World, And A Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

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.

Man Is Born Passionate Of Body, But With An Innate Though Secret Tendency To The Love Of Good In His Main-spring Of Mind. But God Help Us All! It Is At Present A Sad Jar Of Atoms.

Your Thief Looks Exactly Like The Rest, Or Rather Better; 'tis Only At The Bar, And In The Dungeon, That Wise Men Know Your Felon By His Features.

Gone, Glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were.

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.

Men Love In Haste, But They Detest At Leisure.

O Ye! Who Teach The Ingenious Youth Of Nations, Holland, France, England, Germany Or Spain, I Pray Ye Flog Them Upon All Occasions, It Mends Their Morals, Never Mind The Pain.

Love Rules The Camp, The Court, The Grove - For Love Is Heaven, And Heaven Is Love.

I Have No Consistency, Except In Politics; And That Probably Arises From My Indifference To The Subject Altogether.

It Would Be Difficult, Perhaps, To Find The Annals Of A Nation Less Stained With Crimes Than Those Of The Armenians, Whose Virtues Have Been Those Of Peace, And Their Vices Those Of Compulsion. But Whatever May Have Been Their Destiny And It Has Been Bitter Whatever It May Be In Future, Their Country Must Ever Be One Of The Most Interesting On The Globe.

Still From The Fount Of Joy's Delicious Springs Some Bitter O'er The Flowers Its Bubbling Venom Flings.

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!

Admire, Exult, Despise, Laugh, Weep For Here There Is Such Matter For All Feelings: Man! Thou Pendulum Betwixt A Smile And Tear.

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.

Yet Still There Whispers The Small Voice Within, Heard Through Gain's Silence, And O'er Glory's Din; Whatever Creed Be Taught Or Land Be Trod, Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.

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

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.

But Every Fool Describes, In These Bright Days, His Wondrous Journey To Some Foreign Court, And Spawns His Quarto, And Demands Your Praise,-- Death To His Publisher, To Him 'tis Sport.

And Hold Up To The Sun My Little Taper.

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!

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

I Hate All Pain, Given Or Received; We Have Enough Within Us The Meanest Vassal As The Loftiest Monarch, Not To Add To Each Other's Natural Burden Of Mortal Misery.

Fill High The Cup With Samian Wine!

Dead Scandals Form Good Subjects For Dissection.

Sublime Tobacco! Which From East To West, Cheers The Tar's Labour Or The Turkman's Rest; Which On The Moslem's Ottoman Divides His Hours, And Rivals Opium And His Brides; Magnificent In Stamboul, But Less Grand, Though Not Less Loved, In Wapping Or The Strand: Divine In Hookas, Glorious In A Pipe, When Tipp'd With Amber, Mellow, Rich, And Ripe; Like Other Charmers Wooing The Caress, More Dazzlingly When Daring In Full Dress; Yet Thy True Lovers More Admire By Far Thy Naked Beauties Give Me A Cigar!

Now I Shall Go To Sleep. Goodnight.

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.

In England The Only Homage Which They Pay To Virtue - Is Hypocrisy.

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

For Through The South The Custom Still Commands The Gentleman To Kiss The Lady's Hands.

How Sweet And Soothing Is This Hour Of Calm! I Thank Thee, Night! For Thou Has Chased Away These Horrid Bodements Which, Amidst The Throng, I Could Not Dissipate; And With The Blessing Of Thy Benign And Quiet Influence Now Will I To My Couch, Although To Rest Is Almost Wronging Such A Night As This.

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

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

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.

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.

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?

The Keenest Pangs The Wretched Find Are Rapture To The Dreary Void, The Leafless Desert Of The Mind, The Waste Of Feelings Unemployed.

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.

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

What Is Death, So It Be But Glorious? 'tis A Sunset; And Mortals May Be Happy To Resemble The Gods But In Decay.

Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.

I Loved My Country, And I Hated Him.

A Quiet Conscience Makes One So Serene.

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

I Awoke One Day To Find Myself Famous.

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

Above Or Love, Hope, Hate Or Fear, It Lives All Passionless And Pure: An Age Shall Fleet Like Earthly Year; Its Years In Moments Shall Endure. Away, Away, Without A Wing, O'er All, Through All, Its Thought Shall Fly; A Nameless And Eternal Thing, Forgetting What It Was To Die.

Champagne With Its Foaming Whirls/as White As Cleopatra's Pearls.

Egypt! From Whose All Dateless Tombs Arose Forgotten Pharaohs From Their Long Repose, And Shook Within Their Pyramids To Hear A New Cambyses Thundering In Their Ear; While The Dark Shades Of Forty Ages Stood Like Startled Giants By Nile's Famous Flood.

The Very Best Of Vineyards Is The Cellar

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

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

The Image Of Eternity--the Throne Of The Invisible; Even From Out Thy Slime The Monsters Of The Deep Are Made; Each Zone Obeys Thee; Thou Goest Forth, Dread, Fathomless, Alone.

My Heart In Passion, And My Head On Rhymes.

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

Shakespeare's Name, You May Depend On It, Stands Absurdly Too High And Will Go Down.

There Is Something To Me Very Softening In The Presence Of A Woman, Some Strange Influence, Even If One Is Not In Love With Them, Which I Cannot At All Account For, Having No Very High Opinion Of The Sex. But Yet, I Always Feel In Better Humor With Myself And Every Thing Else, If There Is A Woman Within Ken.

Critics Are Already Made.

I Am Ashes Where Once I Was Fire.

Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

For The Angel Of Death Spread His Wings On The Blast, And Breathed In The Face Of The Foe As He Passed; And The Eyes Of The Sleepers Waxed Deadly And Chill, And Their Hearts But Once Heaved, And For Ever Grew Still!

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

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

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.

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.

We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

If From Society We Learn To Live, Solitude Should Teach Us How To Die.

Yet Truth Will Sometimes Lend Her Noblest Fires, And Decorate The Verse Herself Inspires: This Fact, In Virtue's Name, Let Crabbe Attest,- Though Nature's Sternest Painter, Yet The Best.

A Sleep Without Dreams, After A Rough Day Of Toil, Is What We Covet Most; And Yet How Clay Shrinks Back From More Quiescent Clay! The Very Suicide That Pays His Debt At Once Without Installments (an Old Way Of Paying Debts, Which Creditors Regret) Lets Out Impatiently His Rushing Breath, Less From Disgust Of Life Than Dread Of Death.

Though Sages May Pour Out Their Wisdom's Treasure, There Is No Sterner Moralist Than Pleasure.

Sweet Is Revenge-especially To Women.

Tyranny Is Far The Worst Of Treasons. Dost Thou Deem None Rebels Except Subjects? The Prince Who Neglects Or Violates His Trust Is More A Brigand Than The Robber-chief.

I Would Rather Have A Nod From An American, Than A Snuff- Box From An Emperor.

The Mellow Autumn Came, And With It Came The Promised Party, To Enjoy Its Sweets. The Corn Is Cut, The Manor Full Of Game; The Pointer Ranges, And The Sportsman Beats In Russet Jacket;--lynx-like Is His Aim; Full Grows His Bag, And Wonderful His Feats. An, Nutbrown Partridges! An, Brilliant Pheasants! And Ah, Ye Poachers!--'tis No Sport For Peasants.

This Man Is Freed From Servile Bands, Of Hope To Rise, Or Fear To Fall; Lord Of Himself, Though Not Of Lands, And Leaving Nothing, Yet Hath All.

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

Of All The Horrid, Hideous Notes Of Woe, Sadder Than Owl-songs Or The Midnight Blast; Is That Portentous Phrase, "i Told You So.

Are Not The Mountains, Waves, And Skies As Much A Part Of Me, As I Of Them?

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 Change Came O'er The Spirit Of My Dream.

What Exile From Himself Can Flee? To Zones, Though More And More Remote, Still, Still Pursues, Where'er I Be, The Blight Of Life--the Demon Thought.

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

Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.

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

In Secret We Met - In Silence I Grieve, That Thy Heart Could Forget, Thy Spirit Deceive. If I Should Meet Thee After Long Years, How Should I Greet Thee? - With Silence And Tears

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