George Gordon Byron Poems

  • 301.  
    Thy verse is 'sad' enough, no doubt:
    A devilish deal more sad than witty!Why we should weep I can't find out,
  • 302.  
    If sometimes in the haunts of men
    Thine image from my breast may fade,The lonely hour presents again
  • 303.  
    No breath of air to break the wave
    That rolls below the Athenian's grave,That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff
  • 304.  
    This votive pledge of fond esteem,
    Perhaps, dear girl! for me thou'lt prize;It sings of Love's enchanting dream,
  • 305.  
    White as a white sail on a dusky sea,When half the horizon 's clouded and half free,
  • 306.  
    High in the midst, surrounded by his peers,
    MAGNUS his ample front sublime up rears:Placed on his chair of state, he seems a god.
  • 307.  
    Since our Country, our God -- Oh, my Sire!
    Demand that thy Daughter expire; Since thy triumph was brought by thy vow--
  • 308.  
    When some proud son of man returns to earth,
    Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth,The sculptor's art exhausts the pomp of woe,
  • 309.  
    Ah! Love was never yet without
    The pang, the agony, the doubt,Which rends my heart with ceaseless sigh,
  • 310.  
    Oh, Friend! for ever loved, for ever dear!
    What fruitless tears have bathed thy honour'd bier!What sighs re'echo'd to thy parting breath,
  • 311.  
    Through life's dull road, so dim and dirty,
    I have dragg'd to three-and-thirty.What have these years left to me?
  • 312.  
    My boat is on the shore,
    And my bark is on the sea;But, before I go, Tom Moore,
  • 313.  
    In this book a traveller had written:­
    'Fair Albion, smiling, sees her son departTo trace the birth and nursery of art:
  • 314.  
    Oh! my lonely--lonely--lonely--Pillow!
    Where is my lover? where is my lover?Is it his bark which my dreary dreams discover?
  • 315.  
    Thy cheek is pale with thought, but not from woe,
    And yet so lovely, that if Mirth could flush Its rose of whiteness with the brightest blush,
  • 316.  
    I saw thee weep--the big bright tear
    Came o'er that eye of blue;And then methought it did appear
  • 317.  
    Difficile est proprie communia dicere
    HOR. Epist. ad PisonI Bob Southey! You're a poet--Poet-laureate,
  • 318.  
    Sons of the Greeks, arise!
    The glorious hour's gone forth,And, worthy of such ties,
  • 319.  
    Oh! could Le Sage's demon's gift
    Be realized at my desire, This night my trembling form he'd lift
  • 320.  
    Oh Lady! when I left the shore,
    The distant shore which gave me birth,I hardly thought to grieve once more
  • 321.  
    I enter thy garden of roses,
    Beloved and fair Haidée,Each morning where Flora reposes,
  • 322.  
    Sun of the sleepless! melancholy star!
    Whose tearful beam glows tremulously far,That show'st the darkness thou canst not dispel,
  • 323.  
    Those flaxen locks, those eyes of blue
    Bright as thy mother's in their hue;Those rosy lips, whose dimples play
  • 324.  
    MONTGOMERY! true, the common lot
    Of mortals lies in Lethe's wave;Yet some shall never be forgot,
  • 325.  
    When Newton saw an apple fall, he found
    In that slight startle from his contemplation--'Tis said (for I 'll not answer above ground
  • 326.  
    Oh! yes, I will own we were dear to each other;
    The friendships of childhood, though fleeting are true;The love which you felt was the love of a brother,
  • 327.  
    When, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
    Her dusky shadow mounts too high,And o'er the changing aspect flits,
  • 328.  
    Beneath Blessington's eyes
    The reclaimed ParadiseShould be free as the former from evil;
  • 329.  
    It is the hour when from the boughs
    The nightingale's high note is heard;It is the hour -- when lover's vows
  • 330.  
    When Dryden's fool, 'unknowing what he sought,'
    His hours in whistling spent, 'for want of thought,'This guiltless oaf his vacancy of sense
  • 331.  
    Posterity will ne'er survey
    A nobler grave than this:Here lie the bones of Castlereagh:
  • 332.  
    When the moon is on the wave,
    And the glow-worm in the grass,And the meteor on the grave,
  • 333.  
    Dear Doctor, I have read your play,
    Which is a good one in its way,­Purges the eyes and moves the bowels,
  • 334.  
    Start notâ??nor deem my spirit fled:
    In me behold the only skull From which, unlike a living head,
  • 335.  

  • 336.  
    I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;
    There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame;But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart
  • 337.  
    My hair is grey, but not with years,
    Nor grew it white In a single night,
  • 338.  
    'There is a tide in the affairs of men
    Which,--taken at the flood,'--you know the rest,And most of us have found it now and then;
  • 339.  
    The fight was o'er; the flashing through the gloom,Which robes the cannon as he wings a tomb,
  • 340.  
    Eternal Spirit of the chainless Mind!
    Brightest in dungeons, Liberty, thou art;For there thy habitation is the heartâ??
  • 341.  
    When coldness wraps this suffering clay,
    Ah! whither strays the immortal mind?It cannot die, it cannot stay,
  • 342.  
    Thy days are done, thy fame begun;
    Thy country's strains recordThe triumphs of her chosen Son,
  • 343.  
    A Fragment of a Turkish Tale

  • 344.  
    Well! thou art happy, and I feel
    That I should thus be happy too; For still my heart regards thy weal
  • 345.  
    Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous:
    I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you:But woman is made to command and deceive us â??
  • 346.  
    When Time, or soon or late, shall bring
    The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,Oblivion! may thy languid wing
  • 347.  
    Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
    For other's weal avail'd on high,Mine will not all be lost in air,
  • 348.  
    Dear Doctor, I have read your play,
    Which is a good one in its way, Purges the eyes, and moves the bowels,
  • 349.  
    'What say I?'--not a syllable further in prose;
    I'm your man 'of all measures,' dear Tom,--so here goes!Here goes, for a swim on the stream of old Time,
  • 350.  
    Maid of Athens, ere we part,
    Give, oh give me back my heart!Or, since that has left my breast,
Total 351 poems written by George Gordon Byron

Poem of the day

 by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

GOD to his untaught children sent

Law, order, knowledge, art, from high,
And ev'ry heav'nly favour lent,

The world's hard lot to qualify.
They knew not how they should behave,


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