One wandering thought pollutes the day;.
Lord Byron doesn’t have a life plan. He doesn’t have a day plan. I once found a note that he wrote to himself that said: ’put on pants.
Confound the subtlety of lawyers with the subtlety of the law.
The person who has been accustomed to subdue men by force will be less inclined to the trouble of convincing or persuading them.
The cultivation of those sciences which have enlarged the limits of the empire of man over the external world, has, for want of poetical faculty, proportionally circumscribed those of the internal world; and man, having enslaved the elements, remains himself a slave.
You must come home with and be my guest; You will give joy to me, and I will do all that is in my power to honor you.
Hell is a city much like London.
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:.
War is a kind of superstition, the pageantry of arms and badges corrupts the imagination of men.
A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth. There.
Poetry enlarges the circumference of the imagination by replenishing it with thoughts of ever new delight, which have the power of attracting and assimilating to their own nature all other thoughts, and which form new intervals and interstices whose void for ever craves fresh food.
Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and most beautiful in the world.
Yes! all is past – swift time has fled away, Yet its swell pauses on my sickening mind; How long will horror nerve this frame of clay? I’m dead, and lingers yet my soul behind.
Look on yonder earth: The golden harvests spring; the unfailing sun Sheds light and life; the fruits, the flowers, the trees, Arise in due succession; all things speak Peace, harmony and love. The universe, In Nature’s silent eloquence, declares That all fulfil the works of love and joy, – All but the outcast, Man.
Implacable hate, patient cunning, and a sleepless refinement of device to inflict the extremest anguish on an enemy, these things are evil; and, although venial in a slave are not to be forgiven in a tyrant; although.
How wonderful is Death, Death, and his brother Sleep! One, pale as yonder waning moon With lips of lurid blue; The other, rosy as the morn When throned on ocean’s wave It blushes o’er the world; Yet both so passing wonderful!
I change, but I cannot die.
Reading does not occupy me enough: the only relief I find springs from the composition of poetry, which necessitates contemplations that lift me above the stormy mist of sensations which are my habitual place of abode. I have lately been composing a poem on Keats; it is better than anything I have yet written and worthy both of him and of me.
Whatever talents a person may possess to amuse and instruct others, be they ever so inconsiderable, he is yet bound to exert them: if his attempt be ineffectual, let the punishment of an unaccomplished purpose have been sufficient; let none trouble themselves to heap the dust of oblivion upon his efforts; the pile they raise will betray his grave which might otherwise have been unknown.
Poetry defeats the curse which binds us to be subjected to the accident of surrounding impressions.