Zitate von Lord George Gordon Byron
Ein bekanntes Zitat von Lord George Gordon Byron:
Es ist viel leichter, für die Frau, die man liebt, zu sterben, als mit ihr zu leben.
Informationen über Lord George Gordon Byron
Poet, "Childe Harold's Pilgrimage", "Cain", "Lara", galt außerhalb Englands als "schillernde Persönlichkeit" mit großem Einfluß (England, 1788 - 1824).
Lord George Gordon Byron · Geburtsdatum · Sterbedatum
Lord George Gordon Byron wäre heute 236 Jahre, 3 Monate, 4 Tage oder 86.292 Tage alt.
Geboren am 22.01.1788 in London
Gestorben am 19.04.1824 in Missolunghi
Sternzeichen: ♒ Wassermann
Unbekannt
Weitere 343 Zitate von Lord George Gordon Byron
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Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence.
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Married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.
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Merely innocent flirtation, Not quite adultery, but adulteration.
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Milton's the prince of poets-so we say; A little heavy, but no less divine.
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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!
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My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.
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My native land - Good Night!
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My Princess of Parallelograms.
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My way is to begin with the beginning.
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Near the 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.
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None are so desolate but something dear, Dearer than self, possesses or possessed A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
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Nothing can confound a wise man more than laughter from a dunce.
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Now Barabbas was a publisher.
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Now hatred is by far the longest pleasure; Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
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Now my sere fancy 'falls into the yellow Leaf,' and imagination droops her pinion, And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.
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Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe, Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast, Is that portentous phrase, 'I told you so.'
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Of its own beauty is the mind diseased.
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Oh Rome! my country! city of the soul!
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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.
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Oh! that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her!