If I wasn't dead already, I'd said I was having a heart attack.
Laurell K. HamiltonTags: anita-blake byron
For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
Tags: war death-and-dying warriors angel-of-death byron destruction-of-sennacherib
No, I'm not Byron, it's my role
To be an undiscovered wonder,
Like him, a persecuted wand'rer,
But furnished with a Russian soul.
I started sooner, sooner ending,
My mind will never reach so high;
Within my soul, beyond the mending,
My shattered aspirations lie:
Dark ocean answer me, can any
Plumb all your depth with skillful trawl?
Who will explain me to the many?
I... perhaps God? No one at all?
Tags: byron lermontov byronic-hero mikhail-lermontov
When a man hath no freedom to fight for at home,
Let him combat for that of his neighbours;
Let him think of the glories of Greece and of Rome,
And get knocked on the head for his labours.
To do good to Mankind is the chivalrous plan,
And is always as nobly requited;
Then battle fro Freedom wherever you can,
And, if not shot or hanged, you'll get knighted.
Tags: freedom rome glory greece battle lord-byron knight byron
A lovely young Italian girl passed by. Byron tilted his head to a very odd angle, half-closed his eyes and composed his features to suggest that he was about to expire from chronic indigestion. Dr Greysteel could only suppose that he was treating the young woman to the Byronic profile and the Byronic expression.
Susanna ClarkeTags: lord-byron byron
The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.
Helen BevingtonTags: poetry writing writers night apple poets winter seasons tea april spring alcohol fall morris coffee autumn pope apples burns keats insomnia longfellow tennyson shelley hart-crane may milton september season auden nocturnal wordsworth byron de-la-mare schiller spender
You're not beautiful," he said in a quiet statement that made her brow knit. "Why do you look beautiful when you're not?
Nora RobertsTags: byron
It's that wounded-poet crap, that soul-pain shit, that too-much-of-a-tortured-genius-to-wash bollocks. Brush your teeth, you little bastard. You're not fucking Byron.
Robert GalbraithTags: byron wounded-poet-crap
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