George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
A thirst for gold,
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm
The meanest hearts.
A thirst for gold,
The beggar's vice, which can but overwhelm
The meanest hearts.
Parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps read more
Parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till--'tis gone--and all is gray.
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And read more
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
Not fewer than three nor more than nine.
[Lat., Neque pauciores tribus, neque plures novem.]
Not fewer than three nor more than nine.
[Lat., Neque pauciores tribus, neque plures novem.]
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it,
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
Kill a man's family, and he may brook it,
But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier.
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier.
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls--the World.
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls--the World.
Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon,
So costly were they; carpets, every stitch
Of workmanship read more
Sofas 'twas half a sin to sit upon,
So costly were they; carpets, every stitch
Of workmanship so rare, they make you wish
You could glide o'er them like a golden fish.
Sorrow preys upon
Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it
From its sad visions of the other read more
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.
The castled crag of Drachenfels,
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine,
Whose breast of waters broadly read more
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.
