George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the Music breathing from her face,
The read more
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the Music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,
And, oh! the eye was in itself a Soul!
Father! no prophet's laws I seek,--
Thy laws in Nature's works appear;--
I own myself corrupt and read more
Father! no prophet's laws I seek,--
Thy laws in Nature's works appear;--
I own myself corrupt and weak,
Yet will I pray, for thou wilt hear.
So well she acted all and every part
By turns--with that vivacious versatility,
Which many people take read more
So well she acted all and every part
By turns--with that vivacious versatility,
Which many people take for want of heart.
They err--'tis merely what is call'd mobility,
A thing of temperament and not of art,
Though seeming so, from its supposed facility;
And false--though true; for surely they're sincerest
Who are strongly acted on by what is nearest.
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime.
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time;
Mad wag! who pardon'd none, read more
Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime.
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time;
Mad wag! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best,
And turn'd some very serious things to jest.
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers,
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers;
"Alas, poor Yorick!" now forever mute!
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote.
We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens,
When "Chrononhotonthelogos must die,"
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty.
There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's read more
There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.
This is to be along; this, this is solitude!
This is to be along; this, this is solitude!
In solitude, when we are least alone.
In solitude, when we are least alone.
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
Modesty is the only sure bait when you are fishing for praise.
Modesty is the only sure bait when you are fishing for praise.
