Lord Byron Quotes on Poetry
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Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1812-1818)
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I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
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The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.
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She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellow'd to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
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She was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all.
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So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.
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For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.
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Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.
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Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, Wished him five fathom under the Rialto.
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His heart was one of those which most enamour us, Wax to receive, and marble to retain: He was a lover of the good old school, Who still become more constant as they cool.
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I love the language, that soft bastard Latin, Which melts like kisses from a female mouth, And sounds as if it should be writ on satin, With syllables which breathe of the sweet South, And gentle liquids gliding all so pat in, That not a single accent seems uncouth, Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting guttural, Which we're obliged to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.
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Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes, Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.
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O Mirth and Innocence! O milk and water! Ye happy mixtures of more happy days.
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Lord Byron is great only as a poet; as soon as he reflects, he is a child.
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In a room at the end of the garden to this house was a magnificent rocking-horse, which a friend had given my little boy; and Lord Byron, with a childish glee becoming a poet, would ride upon it. Ah! why did he ever ride his Pegasus to less advantage?