Zitate von Lord George Gordon Byron
Ein bekanntes Zitat von Lord George Gordon Byron:
Die Demokratie ist eine Aristokratie von Schurken.
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, 2 Monate, 28 Tage oder 86.285 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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The English winter - ending in July, to recommence in August.
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The English winter-ending in July, To recommence in August.
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The glory and the nothing of a name.
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The intellectual eunuch Castlereagh.
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The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece! Where burning Sappho loved and sung, Where grew the arts of war and peace, Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung! Eternal summer gilds them yet, But all, except their sun, is set!
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The laughing dames in whom he did delight, Whose large blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy hands, Might shake the saintship of an anchorite.
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The Lord of the unerring bow, The God of life, and poesy, and light.
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The man is mad, Sir, mad, frightful as a Mandrake, and lean as a rutting Stag, and all about a bitch not worth a Bank token.
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The mind can make Substance, and people planets of its own With beings brighter than have been, and give A breath to forms which can outlive all flesh.
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The moon is up, and yet it is not night; Sunset divides the sky with her - a sea of glory streams along the Alpine height of blue Friuli's mountains; Heaven is free from clouds, but of all colours seems to be melted to one vast Iris of the West, where the day joins the past eternity.
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The mountains look on Marathon- And Marathon looks on the sea; And musing there an hour alone, I dreamed that Greece might still be free.
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The petrifactions of a plodding brain.
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The power of Thought, the magic of the Mind.
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The reading or non-reading a book-will never keep down a single petticoat.
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The spirit burning but unbent, May writhe, rebel-the weak alone repent!
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The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed.
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The very knowledge that he lived in vain, That all was over on this sidethe tomb, Had made Despair a smilingness assume.
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The wandering outlaw of his own dark mind.
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The worlds beyond this world's perplexing waste Had more of her existence for in her There was a depth of feeling to embrace Thoughts, boundless, deep, but silent too as space.
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Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, not for thy faults, but mine.