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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.

-Lord Byron

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The Thorns Which I

Lord Byron

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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.

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But As To Women, Who Can Penetrate The Real Sufferings Of Their She Condition? Man's Very Sympathy With Their Estate Has Much Of Selfishness And More Suspicion. Their Love, Their Virtue, Beauty, Education, But Form Good Housekeepers, To Breed A Nation.

The Poor Dog, In Life The Firmest Friend. The First To Welcome, Foremost To Defend.

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.

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

I Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me, But Let Us Part Fair Foes; I Do Believe, Though I Have Found Them Not, That There May Be Words Which Are Things, Hopes Which Will Not Deceive, And Virtues Which Are Merciful, Or Weave Snares For The Failing: I Would Also Deem O'er Others' Griefs That Some Sincerely Grieve; That Two, Or One, Are Almost What They Seem, That Goodness Is No Name, And Happiness No Dream.

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

And The Commencement Of Atonement Is The Sense Of Its Necessity.

Whatsoever Thy Birth, Thou Wert A Beautiful Thought, And Softly Bodied Forth.

As Long As I Retain My Feeling And My Passion For Nature, I Can Partly Soften Or Subdue My Other Passions And Resist Or Endure Those Of Others.

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.

Glory, Like The Phoenix 'midst Her Fires, Exhales Her Odours, Blazes, And Expires.

When People Say, "i've Told You Fifty Times," They Mean To Scold, And Very Often Do; When Poets Say, "i've Written Fifty Rhymes," They Make You Dread That They'll Recite Them Too; In Gangs Of Fifty, Thieves Commit Their Crimes; At Fifty Love For Love Is Rare, 't Is True, But Then, No Doubt, It Equally As True Is, A Good Deal May Be Bought For Fifty Louis.

Go Let Thy Less Than Woman's Hand Assume The Distaff Not The Brand.

Those Who Will Not Reason, Are Bigots, Those Who Cannot, Are Fools, And Those Who Dare Not, Are Slaves.

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.

Death, So Called, Is A Thing Which Makes Men Weep, And Yet A Third Of Life Is Passed In Sleep.

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

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.

Why I Came Here, I Know Not; Where I Shall Go It Is Useless To Inquire - In The Midst Of Myriads Of The Living And The Dead Worlds, Stars, Systems, Infinity, Why Should I Be Anxious About An Atom?

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

Jealousy Dislikes The World To Know It.

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

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.

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.

The Best Prophet Of The Future Is The Past.

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

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

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

And Mocha's Berry, From Arabia Pure, In Small Fine China Cups, Came In At Last. Gold Cups Of Filigree, Made To Secure The Hand From Burning, Underneath Them Place. Cloves, Cinnamon And Saffron, Too, Were Boiled Up With The Coffee, Which, I Think, They Spoiled.

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.

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. It Is A Title Dearly Enough Bought By Most Men, To Render It Endurable, Even When Not Quite Clearly Made Out, Which It Never Can Be Till The Posterity, Whose Decisions Are Merely Dreams To Ourselves, Has Sanctioned Or Denied It, While It Can Touch Us No Further.

Rough Johnson, The Great Moralist.

Cervantes Smiled Spain's Chivalry Away.

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

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

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

The Coach Does Not Play In The Game, But The Coach Helps The Players Identify Areas To Improve Their Game.

None Are So Desolate But Something Dear, Dearer Than Self, Possesses Or Possess'd A Thought, And Claims The Homage Of A Tear.

It Is Not For Minds Like Ours To Give Or To Receive Flatter; Yet The Praises Of Sincerity Have Ever Been Permitted To The Voice Of Friendship

My Heart In Passion, And My Head On Rhymes.

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

When Age Chills The Blood, When Our Pleasures Are Past - For Years Fleet Away With The Wings Of The Dove - The Dearest Remembrance Will Still Be The Last, Our Sweetest Memorial The First Kiss Of Love.

O Fame! If I Ever Took Delight In Thy Praises, Twas Less For The Sake Of Thy High-sounding Phrases, Than To See The Bright Eyes Of The Dear One Discover The Thought That I Was Not Unworthy To Love Her.

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

Muse Of The Many Twinkling Feet, Whose Charms Are Now Extending Up From Legs To Arms.

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

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

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

Know Ye Not Who Would Be Free Themselves Must Strike The Blow? By Their Right Arms The Conquest Must Be Wrought?

I See Before Me The Gladiator Lie.

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

Armenian Is The Language To Speak With God.

Had Sigh'd To Many, Though He Loved But One.

I Know That Two And Two Make Four - And Should Be Glad To Prove It Too If I Could - Though I Must Say If By Any Sort Of Process I Could Convert 2 And 2 Into Five It Would Give Me Much Greater Pleasure.

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

It Is Useless To Tell One Not To Reason But To Believe; You Might As Well Tell A Man Not To Wake But Sleep.

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

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?

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar?

Wounds And Scars

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.

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

I Should Like To Know Who Has Been Carried Off, Except Poor Dear Me - I Have Been More Ravished Myself Than Anybody Since The Trojan War.

I Have Had, And May Have Still, A Thousand Friends, As They Are Called, In Life, Who Are Like One's Partners In The Waltz Of This World -not Much Remembered When The Ball Is Over.

The Heart Will Break, But Broken Live On.

You Gave Me The Key To Your Heart, My Love, Then Why Did You Make Me Knock?

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!

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.

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

Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent For Slumber!

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

My Altars Are The Mountains And The Ocean.

I Had A Dream, Which Was Not At All A Dream.

The Bright Sun Was Extinguish'd, And The Stars Did Wander Darkling In The Eternal Space.

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.

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

Thy Decay's Still Impregnate With Divinity.

Love Will Find A Way Through Paths Where Wolves Fear To Prey.

Happy Valentines Day

So We'll Go No More A-roving So Late Into The Night, Though The Heart Still Be As Loving, And The Moon Still Be As Bright. For The Sword Outwears Its Sheath, And The Soul Outwears The Breast, And The Heart Must Pause To Breathe, And Love Itself Have Rest. Though The Night Was Made For Loving, And The Day Returns Too Soon, Yet We'll Go No More A-roving By The Light Of The Moon.

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

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

And Life 's Enchanted Cup But Sparkles Near The Brim.

Mark! Where His Carnage And His Conquests Cease, He Makes A Solitude And Calls It-peace!

Hatred Is The Madness Of The Heart.

The Poor Dog, In Life The Firmest Friend, The First To Welcome, Foremost To Defend, Whose Honest Heart Is Still The Master's Own, Who Labours, Fights, Lives, Breathes For Him Alone, Unhonour'd Falls, Unnoticed All His Worth, Denied In Heaven The Soul He Held On Earth, While Man, Vain Insect Hopes To Be Forgiven, And Claims Himself A Sole Exclusive Heaven.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

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

I Awoke One Morning And Found Myself Famous.

Sleep Hath Its Own World, And The Wide Realm Of Wild Reality.

What Is The End Of Fame? 'tis But To Fill A Certain Portion Of Uncertain Paper: Some Liken It To Climbing Up A Hill, Whose Summit, Like All Hills, Is Lost In Vapour: For This Men Write, Speak, Preach, And Heroes Kill, And Bards Burn What They Call Their "midnight Taper," To Have, When The Original Is Dust, A Name, A Wretched Picture, And Worse Bust.

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

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

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

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.

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

Positive Atheism

Damn Description, It Is Always Disgusting.

They Truly Mourn, That Mourn Without A Witness.

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

But Stories Somehow Lengthen When Begun.

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

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.

Fools Are My Theme, Let Satire Be My Song.

Think Not I Am What I Appear.

To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet.

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

Prolonged Endurance Tames The Bold.

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

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!

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.

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

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.

There Is Something Pagan In Me That I Cannot Shake Off. In Short, I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

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.

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse Borne Away With Every Breath! Misplaced Upon The Throne Misplaced In Life. I Know Not What I Could Have Been, But Feel I Am Not What I Should Be Let It End.

Let Joy Be Unconfined.

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.

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.

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?

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

War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even To The Knife!"

In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

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

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!

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse -- Borne Away With Every Breath!

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

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.

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

As Winds Come Whispering Lightly From The West, Kissing, Not Ruffling, The Blue Deep's Serene.

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

Now What I Love In Women Is, They Won't Or Can't Do Otherwise Than Lie, But Do It. So Well, The Very Truth Seems Falsehood To It.

Always Laugh When You Can. It Is Cheap Medicine.

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

The Waves Were Dead; The Tides Were In Their Grave, The Moon, Their Mistress, Had Expir'd Before; The Winds Were Wither'd In The Stagnant Air, And The Clouds Perish'd; Darkness Had No Need Of Aid From Them-she Was The Universe.

And Hold Up To The Sun My Little Taper.

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.

Tyranny Is For The Worst Of Treasons.

Since Eve Ate The Apple, Much Depends On Dinner.

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?

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 .

Brisk Confidence Still Best With Woman Copes: Pique Her And Soothe In Turn-soon Passion Crowns Thy Hopes.

In General I Do Not Draw Well With Literary Men -- Not That I Dislike Them But I Never Know What To Say To Them After I Have Praised Their Last Publication.

Retirement Accords With The Tone Of My Mind; I Will Not Descend To A World I Despise.

But Quiet To Quick Bosoms Is A Hell.

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

The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

A Feast Not Profuse But Elegant; More Of Salt [refinement] Than Of Expense.

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

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

This Is To Be Mortal, And Seek The Things Beyond Mortality.

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.

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

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

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.

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

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

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

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

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.

I've Seen Your Stormy Seas And Stormy Women, And Pity Lovers Rather More Than Seamen.

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.

Earth! Render Back From Out Thy Breast A Remnant Of Our Spartan Dead! Of The Three Hundred Grant But Three, To Make A New Thermopylæ!

With Flowing Tail And Flying Mane, Wide Nostrils Never Stretched By Pain, Mouth Bloodless To Bit Or Rein, And Feet That Iron Never Shod, And Flanks Unscar'd By Spur Or Rod, A Thousand Horses - The Wild - The Free - Like Waves That Follow O'er The Sea, Came Thickly Thundering On.

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

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.

And Wrinkles, The Damned Democrats, Won't Flatter.

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.

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.

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!

Where There Is Mystery, It Is Generally Suspected There Must Also Be Evil.

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.

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

Fame Is The Thirst Of Youth.

What Want These Outlaws Conquerors Should Have But History's Purchased Page To Call Them Great?

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

Happiness Was Born A Twin.

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

There's Not A Sea The Passenger E'er Pukes In, Turns Up More Dangerous Breakers Than The Euxine.

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.

As To Don Juan, Confess That It Is The Sublime Of That There Sort Of Writing; It May Be Bawdy, But Is It Not Good English? It May Be Profligate, But Is It Not Life, Is It Not The Thing? Could Any Man Have Written It Who Has Not Lived In The World? And Tooled In A Post-chaise? In A Hackney Coach? In A Gondola? Against A Wall? In A Court Carriage? In A Vis A Vis? On A Table? And Under It?

The Poetry Of Speech.

That Low Vice, Curiosity!

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.

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.

So For A Good Old-gentlemanly Vice, I Think I Must Take Up With Avarice.

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

But 'midst The Crowd, The Hum, The Shock Of Men, To Hear, To See, To Feel, And To Possess, And Roam Along, The World's Tired Denizen, With None Who Bless Us, None Whom We Can Bless.

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?

The French Courage Proceeds From Vanity

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

Nor All That Heralds Rake From Coffin'd Clay, Nor Florid Prose, Nor Honied Lies Of Rhyme, Can Blazon Evil Deeds, Or Consecrate A Crime.

For Truth Is Always Strange; Stranger Than Fiction.

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

The Dome Of Thought, The Palace Of The Soul.

O Gold! I Still Prefer Thee Unto Paper, Which Makes Bank Credit Like A Bark Of Vapour.

Then Farewell, Horace; Whom I Hated So, Not For Thy Faults, But Mine.

She Walks In Beauty, Like The Night Of Cloudless Climes And Starry Skies; And All That's Best Of Dark And Bright Meet In Her Aspect And Her Eyes.

It Is Odd But Agitation Or Contest Of Any Kind Gives A Rebound To My Spirits And Sets Me Up For A Time.

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.

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