The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed.
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
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Now Juan could not understand a word, Being no Grecian; but he had an ear, And her voice was the warble of a bird, ... So soft, so sweet, so delicately clear, That finer, simpler music ne'er was heard; The sort of sound we echo with a tear, Without knowing why - an overpowering tone, Whence Melody descends as from a throne.
Lord ByronStichwörter: love
Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurled from Heaven for sinning;
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being Pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.
But Time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last
Man,—and, as we would hope,—perhaps the Devil,
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While Youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this—the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the Ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.
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.
Lord ByronI only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.
Lord ByronThere's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears;
The earth is but the music of the spheres.
T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end
To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
Particularly with a tiresome friend:
Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;
Dear is the helpless creature we defend
Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot
We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.
But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
Is first and passionate Love—it stands alone,
Like Adam's recollection of his fall;
The Tree of Knowledge has been plucked—all 's known—
And Life yields nothing further to recall
Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven
Fire which Prometheus filched for us from Heaven.
A drop of ink may make a million think.
Lord ByronStichwörter: power-of-words
Absence - that common cure of love.
Lord ByronLove will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.
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