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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.

-Lord Byron

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There Is Something To

Lord Byron

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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.

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He Scratched His Ear, The Infallible Resource To Which Embarrassed People Have Recourse.

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.

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 Have Not Loved The World, Nor The World Me; I Have Not Flattered Its Rank Breath, Nor Bowed To Its Idolatries A Patient Knee, Nor Coined My Cheek To Smiles,-nor Cried Aloud In Worship Of An Echo.

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.

Hearts Will Break - Yet Brokenly, Live On.

Like The Measles, Love Is Most Dangerous When It Comes Late In Life.

Friendship May, And Often Does, Grow Into Love, But Love Never Subsides Into Friendship.

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?

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

I Should, Many A Good Day, Have Blown My Brains Out, But For The Recollection That It Would Have Given Pleasure To My Mother-in-law.

One Hates An Author That's All Author.

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.

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

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

Fools Are My Theme, Let Satire Be My Song.

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.

What Deep Wounds Ever Closed Without A Scar?

Wounds And Scars

I Am So Changeable, Being Everything By Turns And Nothing Long - Such A Strange Melange Of Good And Evil.

The French Courage Proceeds From Vanity

The Fact Is That My Wife If She Had Common Sense Would Have More Power Over Me Than Any Other Whatsoever, For My Heart Always Alights Upon The Nearest Perch.

Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - But Pages Might Be Filled Up, As Vainly As Before, With The Sad Usage Of All Sorts Of Sages, Who In His Life-time, Each Was Deemed A Bore! The Loftiest Minds Outrun Their Tardy Ages.

I Slept And Dreamt That Life Was Beauty; I Woke And Found That Life Was Duty.

Grief Is Fantastical, And Loves The Dead, And The Apparel Of The Grave.

Time Strips Our Illusions Of Their Hue, And One By One In Turn, Some Grand Mistake Casts Off Its Bright Skin Yearly Like The Snake.

To Chase The Glowing Hours With Flying Feet.

Fair Greece! Sad Relic Of Departed Worth! Immortal, Though No More! Though Fallen, Great!

Yet Smelt Roast Meat, Beheld A Huge Fire Shine, And Cooks In Motion With Their Clean Arms Bared.

This Sort Of Adoration Of The Real Is But A Heightening Of The Beau Ideal.

Who Tracks The Steps Of Glory To The Grave?

They Truly Mourn, That Mourn Without A Witness.

The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

Man Is A Carnivorous Production, And Must Have Meals, At Least One Meal A Day; He Cannot Live, Like Woodcocks, Upon Suction, But, Like The Shark And Tiger, Must Have Prey; Although His Anatomical Construction Bears Vegetables, In A Grumbling Way, Your Laboring People Think Beyond All Question, Beef, Veal, And Mutton Better For Digestion.

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

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.

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.

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”.

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

Think Not I Am What I Appear.

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

Friendship Is Love Without His Wings!

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

Know Ye The Land Where The Cypress And Myrtle Are Emblems Of Deeds That Are Done In Their Clime? Where The Rage Of The Vulture, The Love Of The Turtle, Now Melt Into Sorrow, Now Madden To Crime!

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.

Tis Not On Youth's Smooth Cheek The Blush Alone, Which Fades So Fast, But The Tender Bloom Of Heart Is Gone, Ere Youth Itself Be Past.

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

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.

Man's Conscience Is The Oracle Of God.

Near This Spot Are Deposited The Remains Of One Who Possessed Beauty Without Vanity, Strength Without Insolence, Courage Without Ferocity, And All The Virtues Of Man, Without His Vices. This Praise, Which Would Be Unmeaning Flattery If Inscribed Over Human Ashes, Is But A Just Tribute To The Memory Of Botswain, A Dog.

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

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

But Mighty Nature Bounds As From Her Birth; The Sun Is In The Heavens, And Life On Earth: Flowers In The Valley, Splendor In The Beam, Health On The Gale, And Freshness In The Stream.

'tis Pleasant, Sure, To See One's Name In Print. A Book's A Book, Although There's Nothing In 't.

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

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

Good But Rarely Came From Good Advice.

If We Must Have A Tyrant, Let Him At Least Be A Gentleman Who Has Been Bred To The Business, And Let Us Fall By The Axe And Not By The Butcher's Cleaver.

Tyranny Is For The Worst Of Treasons.

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

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

Ah, Happy Years! Once More Who Would Not Be A Boy?

Between Two Worlds Life Hovers Like A Star, Twixt Night And Morn, Upon The Horizon's Verge.

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

Positive Atheism

If I Could Always Read, I Should Never Feel The Want Of Company.

Once More Upon The Waters! Yet Once More! And The Waves Bound Beneath Me As A Steed That Knows His Rider.

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

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

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

Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul Hath Seized? In Him Alone, Can Nature Show As Fair?

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.

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

He Makes A Solitude, And Calls It - Peace!

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

Yes, Love Indeed Is Light From Heaven; A Spark Of That Immortal Fire With Angels Shared, By Allah Given To Lift From Earth Our Low Desire.

My Turn Of Mind Is So Given To Taking Things In The Absurd Point Of View, That It Breaks Out In Spite Of Me Every Now And Then.

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

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

What An Antithetical Mind! - Tenderness, Roughness - Delicacy, Coarseness - Sentiment, Sensuality - Soaring And Groveling, Dirt And Deity - All Mixed Up In That One Compound Of Inspired Clay!

I Only Go Out To Get Me A Fresh Appetite For Being Alone.

Appetite For Life

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

It Is True From Early Habit, One Must Make Love Mechanically As One Swims; I Was Once Very Fond Of Both, But Now As I Never Swim Unless I Tumble Into The Water, I Don't Make Love Till Almost Obliged.

A Little Still She Strove, And Much Repented, And Whispering “i Will Ne'er Consent”—consented.

In Solitude, When We Are Least Alone.

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.

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.

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

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.

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!

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.

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

Father Of Light! Great God Of Heaven! Hear'st Thou The Accents Of Despair? Can Guilt Like Man's Be E'er Forgiven? Can Vice Atone For Crimes By Prayer.

So Bright The Tear In Beauty's Eye, Love Half Regrets To Kiss It Dry.

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

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

Who Falls From All He Knows Of Bliss, Cares Little Into What Abyss.

Talent May Be In Time Forgiven, But Genius Never

'tis Solitude Should Teach Us How To Die; It Hath No Flatterers; Vanity Can Give, No Hollow Aid; Alone - Man With God Must Strive.

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.

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.

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

Since Eve Ate The Apple, Much Depends On Dinner.

I Am Not Now That Which I Have Been.

Be Warm, Be Pure, Be Amorous, But Be Chaste.

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

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?

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

As Soon Seek Roses In December, Ice In June, Hope Constancy In Wind, Or Corn In Chaff Believe A Woman Or An Epitaph Or Any Other Thing That’s False Before You Trust In Critics.

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

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

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

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.

A Pretty Woman Is A Welcome Guest.

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.

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.

My Altars Are The Mountains And The Ocean.

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

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

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

Dead Scandals Form Good Subjects For Dissection.

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

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.

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.

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.

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.

The Dew Of Compassion Is A Tear.

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.

I Deny Nothing, But Doubt Everything.

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

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

Wounds And Scars

For A Man To Become A Poet (witness Petrarch And Dante), He Must Be In Love, Or Miserable.

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.

Gone, Glimmering Through The Dream Of Things That Were.

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.

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.

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

Well, Well, The World Must Turn Upon Its Axis, And All Mankind Turn With It, Heads Or Tails, And Live And Die, Make Love And Pay Our Taxes, And As The Veering Winds Shift, Shift Our Sails.

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.

He Had Kept The Whiteness Of His Soul, And Thus Men O'er Him Wept.

When Falls The Coliseum, Rome Shall Fall; And When Rome Falls--the World.

The Law Of Heaven And Earth Is Life For Life.

Heaven And Earth

It Is The Lava Of The Imagination Whose Eruption Prevents An Earthquake.

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.

'twas Strange That One So Young Should Thus Concern His Brain About The Action Of The Sky; If You Think 'twas Philosophy That This Did, I Can't Help Thinking Puberty Assisted.

Always Laugh When You Can. It Is Cheap Medicine.

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

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

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

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.

But Beef Is Rare Within These Oxless Isles; Goat's Flesh There Is, No Doubt, And Kid, And Mutton; And, When A Holiday Upon Them Smiles, A Joint Upon Their Barbarous Spits They Put On.

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

My Heart In Passion, And My Head On Rhymes.

A Woman Being Never At A Loss... The Devil Always Sticks By Them.

I Die But First I Have Possessed, And Come What May, I Have Been Blessed.

If I Am Fool, It Is, At Least, A Doubting One; And I Envy No One The Certainty Of His Self-approved Wisdom.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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.

Fare Thee Well, And If For Ever Still For Ever Fare Thee Well.

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

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.

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

And Dreams In Their Development Have Breath, And Tears, And Tortures, And The Touch Of Joy; They Have A Weight Upon Our Waking Thoughts, They Take A Weight From Off Our Waking Toils, They Do Divide Our Being.

[armenian] Is A Rich Language, However, And Would Amply Repay Any One The Trouble Of Learning It.

...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.

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!

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

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

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.

The Devil Was The First Democrat

Sorrow Is Knowledge, Those That Know The Most Must Mourn The Deepest, The Tree Of Knowledge Is Not The Tree Of Life.

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

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

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

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

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!

Heaven Gives Its Favourites-early Death.

Do Proper Homage To Thine Idol's Eyes; But No Too Humbly, Or She Will Despise Thee And Thy Suit, Though Told In Moving Tropes: Disguise Even Tenderness If Thou Art Wise.

Such Partings Break The Heart They Fondly Hope To Heal.

Her Great Merit Is Finding Out Mine; There Is Nothing So Amiable As Discernment.

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

Alas! How Deeply Painful Is All Payment!

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.

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.

The Basis Of Your Religion Is Injustice. The Son Of God The Pure, The Immaculate, The Innocent, Is Sacrificed For The Guilty. This Proves His Heroism, But No More Does Away With Man's Sin Than A School Boy's Volunteering To Be Flogged For Another Would Exculpate A Dunce From Negligence.

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!

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.

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.

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.

A Woman Who Gives Any Advantage To A Man May Expect A Lover - But Will Sooner Or Later Find A Tyrant.

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

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

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.

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

Happy Valentines Day

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

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.

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