Lord George Gordon Byron

‘Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, should let itself be snuff’d out by an article.

– Lord Byron

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And, after all, what is a lie? ‘Tis but the truth in masquerade.

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He was the mildest manner’d man that ever scuttled ship or cut a throat.

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Each kiss a heart-quake, – for a kiss’s strength I think it must be reckon’d by its length.

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A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry of some strong swimmer in his agony.

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I wish he would explain his explanation.

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Such hath it been – shall be – beneath the sun the many still must labour for the one.

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He heard it, but he heeded not – his eyes were with his heart, and that was far away.

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His manly brow consents to death, but conquers agony.

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Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, not for they faults but mine.

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For ’tis his nature to advance or die.

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Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part of me and of my soul, as I of them?

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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.

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On with the dance! Let joy be unconfined. No sleep til morn, when youth and pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

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Years steal fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; and life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

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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.

‘Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle, should let itself be snuff’d out by an article.

– Lord Byron

And, after all, what is a lie? ‘Tis but the truth in masquerade.

He was the mildest manner’d man that ever scuttled ship or cut a throat.

Each kiss a heart-quake, – for a kiss’s strength I think it must be reckon’d by its length.

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry of some strong swimmer in his agony.

I wish he would explain his explanation.

Such hath it been – shall be – beneath the sun the many still must labour for the one.

He heard it, but he heeded not – his eyes were with his heart, and that was far away.

His manly brow consents to death, but conquers agony.

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, not for they faults but mine.

For ’tis his nature to advance or die.

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies, a part of me and of my soul, as I of them?

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 unconfined. No sleep til morn, when youth and pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

Years steal fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; and life’s enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

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.

Death in the front, destruction in the rear!

The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was he?

A schoolboy’s tale, the wonder of an hour.