George Gordon Byron Poems
Impromptus Strahan, Tonson, Lintot of the times,
Patron and publisher of rhymes, For thee the bard up Pindus climbs,
Lines Written In An Album, At Malta As o'er the cold sepulchral stone
Some name arrests the passer-by;
Thus, when thou view'st this page alone,
The Irish Avatar 'And Ireland, like a bastinadoed elephant,
kneeling to receive the paltry rider.'~Curran.
On The Bust Of Helen By Canova In this beloved marble view,
Above the works and thoughts of man,
What Nature could, but would not, do,
Don Juan: Canto The Eleventh I
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter," And proved it--'twas no matter what he sald:
There Was A Time, I Need Not Name There was a time, I need not name,
Since it will ne'er forgotten be,
When all our feelings were the same
Don Juan: Canto The Twelfth LIV
A Riddle, On The Letter E The beginning of eternity, the end of time and space,
The beginning of every end, and the end of every place.
On The Death Of A Young Lady Cousin to the Author, and very dear to him
Hush'd are the winds, and still the evening gloom,
Don Juan: Canto The Fourteenth If from great nature's or our own abyss
Of thought we could but snatch a certainty, Perhaps mankind might find the path they miss--
To The Earl Of Clare 'Tu semper amoris
Sisd memor, etcari comitis ne abscedat imago'~Val Flac
Bright Be The Place Of Thy Soul! Bright be the place of thy soul!
No lovelier spirit than thine
E'er burst from its mortal control
There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes,
To A Vain Lady Ah! heedless girl! why thus disclose
What ne'er was meant for other ears:
Why thus destroy thine own repose
Don Juan: Canto The Thirteenth I now mean to be serious;--it is time,
Since laughter now-a-days is deem'd too serious. A jest at Vice by Virtue's call'd a crime,
Francisca Francisca walks in the shadow of night,
But it is not to gaze on the heavenly light - But if she sits in her garden bower,
The First Kiss Of Love Away with your fictions of flimsy romance;
Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove! Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
Stanzas Composed During A Thunderstorm Chill and mirk is the nightly blast,
Where Pindus' mountains rise,
And angry clouds are pouring fast
Don Juan: Canto The Eighth The town was taken--whether he might yield
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now: His stubborn valour was no future shield.
Don Juan: Canto The Seventh O Love! O Glory! what are ye who fly
Around us ever, rarely to alight?
There's not a meteor in the polar sky
To The Duke Of Dorset Dorset! whose early steps with mine have stray'd,
Exploring every path of Ida's glade; Whom still affection taught me to defend
Apostrophe To The Ocean CLXXVIII.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
The Charity Ball What matter the pangs of a husband and father,
If his sorrows in exile be great or be small,
So the Pharisee's glories around her she gather,
Epigram In digging up your bones, Tom Paine,
Will. Cobbett has done well:
You visit him on earth again,
Beppo, A Venetian Story I.
'Tis known, at least it should be, that throughout All countries of the Catholic persuasion,
The Chain I Gave: From The Turkish The chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,
A Fragment: When, To Their Airy Hall When, to their airy hall, my father's voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, poised upon the gale, my form shall ride,
One Struggle More, And I Am Free One struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain;
One last long sigh to love and thee,
She Walks In Beauty She walks in Beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
To Emma Since now the hour is come at last,
When you must quit your anxious lover;
Since now our dream of bliss is past,
To Thyrza Without a stone to mark the spot,
And say, what Truth might well have said,
By all, save one, perchance forgot,
Adrian's Address To His Soul When Dying Ah! gentle, fleeting, wav'ring sprite,
Friend and associate of this clay!
To what unknown region borne,
Oscar Of Alva: A Tale How sweetly shines through azure skies,
The lamp of heaven on Lora's shore;
Where Alva's hoary turrets rise,
Childe Harold's Pilgrimage: A Romaunt. Canto Ii. I.
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven!-but thou, alas! Didst never yet one mortal song inspire-
I Would To Heaven That I Were So Much Clay I would to heaven that I were so much clay,
As I am blood, bone, marrow, passion, feeling - Because at least the past were passed away -
Lara LARA. 
CANTO THE FIRST.
Herod's Lament For Mariamne Oh, Mariamne! now for thee
The heart of which thou bled'st is bleeding; Revenge is lost in agony,
Stanzas To Jessy There is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That Destiny's relentless knife
Farewell To Malta Adieu, ye joys of La Valette!
Adieu, sirocco, sun, and sweat!
Adieu, thou palace rarely enter'd!
To Marion Marion! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
To Mary, On Receiving Her Picture This faint resemblance of thy charms,
(Though strong as mortal art could give,)
My constant heart of fear disarms,
Farewell To The Muse Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,
Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;
Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,
To Eliza Eliza, what fools are the Mussulman sect,
Who to woman deny the soul's future existence!
Could they see thee, Eliza, they'd own their defect,
On Jordan's Banks }
To A Beautiful Quaker }
Don Juan: Canto The Third }
Substitute For An Epitaph Kind Reader! take your choice to cry or laugh;
Here HAROLD lies, but where's his Epitaph?If such you seek, try Westminster, and view
Imitated From Catullus: To Ellen Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
Lines Written Beneath A Picture Dear object of defeated care!
Though now of Love and thee bereft,To reconcile me with despair,
Thou Art Not False, But Thou Art Fickle Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
To those thyself so fondly sought;The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
Total 351 poems written by George Gordon Byron
Poem of the day
Evening Angelus by Joyce Sutphen
I have forgotten the words,
and therefore I shall not conceive
of a mysterious salvation, I shall
not become a tall lily and bloom
into blue and white. Then what
oracular event shall appear on
my doorstep? What announcement
shall crowd me to a corner,
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