Found an interesting fact about Byron

[Batch]

...if one embraces the pain, and

accepts, deals
faces it head on

then it can be learned from

 

[Byron In Exile]

He lives, he wakes — 'tis Death is dead, not he;
Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn,
Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee
The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;
Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!
Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air
Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown
O'er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare
Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair!

 

[Byron In Exile]

He is made one with Nature: there is heard
His voice in all her music, from the moan
Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird;
He is a presence to be felt and known
In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,
Spreading itself where'er that Power may move
Which has withdrawn his being to its own;
Which wields the world with never-wearied love,
Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.

 

[Byron In Exile]

...if one embraces the pain, and

accepts, deals
faces it head on

then it can be learned from

Hamlet, act 2, scene 2:

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so"

 

[Batch]

Hamlet, act 2, scene 2:

"There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so"

agreed.

 

[HB1965]

BIE=

 

[Byron In Exile]

He is a portion of the loveliness
Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear
His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress
Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there
All new successions to the forms they wear;
Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight
To its own likeness, as each mass may bear;
And bursting in its beauty and its might
From trees and beasts and men into the Heavens' light.

 

[Byron In Exile]

agreed.

You really have no idea how cool you are, do you?

That's probably for the best. We really don't need a Queen-Goddess of Lit enslaving us all, and making us all do your bidding.

Whatever that might be. I can only suppose it would entail the death of Busybody, and nobody wants that. The King that kills his fool is a poor one.

 

[Byron In Exile]

BIE=

You are way hawt, but...

John Keats just died, love.

He was 25 years old. There's no doubt he would have given Shakespeare a run for it. The good Lord Byron thought he wrote crap. But Shelley knew better.

The world was robbed of a brilliant creative mind. All in an instant.

We have to go on, regardless.

 

[Batch]

You really have no idea how cool you are, do you?

That's probably for the best. We really don't need a Queen-Goddess of Lit enslaving us all, and making us all do your bidding.

Whatever that might be. I can only suppose it would entail the death of Busybody, and nobody wants that. The King that kills his fool is a poor one.

come away with me,

sit on my backyard porch,

sip some Irish Breakfast tea

and we shall


enjoy each the other's company...

*nuzzle*

 

[Byron In Exile]

come away with me,

sit on my backyard porch,

sip some Irish Breakfast tea

and we shall


enjoy each the other's company...

*nuzzle*

Might be about time for that.

 

[Byron In Exile]

But, girls, I've started this, and I'll finish it.

If you understand me, then you'll understand.

Once I put my mind to a thing, as my ex once said, "you can do anything," so there's that.

 

[Byron In Exile]

The splendours of the firmament of time
May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;
Like stars to their appointed height they climb,
And death is a low mist which cannot blot
The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought
Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair,
And love and life contend in it, for what
Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there
And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.

 

[Byron In Exile]

I'll be brief. We'll cut to the last four stanzas.

 

[Byron In Exile]

The One remains, the many change and pass;
Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly;
Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of Eternity,
Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die,
If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!
Follow where all is fled! — Rome's azure sky,
Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak
The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.

 

[HB1965]

You are way hawt, but...

John Keats just died, love.

He was 25 years old. There's no doubt he would have given Shakespeare a run for it. The good Lord Byron thought he wrote crap. But Shelley knew better.

The world was robbed of a brilliant creative mind. All in an instant.

We have to go on, regardless.

I know it's sad, but you are doing well honoring his good name

 

[Byron In Exile]

I know it's sad, but you are doing well honoring his good name

Thank you, but... really, his name isn't of much use in the world now. Nor is Shakespeare's for that matter.

Do we prioritize the culture, or the people?

 

[Byron In Exile]

Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?
Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here
They have departed; thou shouldst now depart!
A light is passed from the revolving year,
And man, and woman; and what still is dear
Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.
The soft sky smiles, — the low wind whispers near:
'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither,
No more let Life divide what Death can join together.

 

[Byron In Exile]

That Light whose smile kindles the Universe,
That Beauty in which all things work and move,
That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse
Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love
Which through the web of being blindly wove
By man and beast and earth and air and sea,
Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of
The fire for which all thirst, now beams on me,
Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.

 

[Byron In Exile]

The breath whose might I have invoked in song
Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven
Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng
Whose sails were never to the tempest given;
The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!
I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;
Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,
The soul of Adonais, like a star,
Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are

 

[Byron In Exile]

And there's an end.

 

[Batch]

Might be about time for that.

... *smiles*

maybe, so.

 

[FaustARP]

Eliot was accused of antisemitism.

Still my favorite.

 

[Byron In Exile]

Eliot was accused of antisemitism.

Still my favorite.

You're thinking of "Age of Bronze" maybe?

 

[Byron In Exile]

... *smiles*

maybe, so.

I always wonder if anyone actually read what I posted.

But, it terms of romantic-era poetry, it will remain there.

If anyone bothers to look it up.