— Lord Byron, from “To the Countess of Blessington.”
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Please remember that Contessa Guiccioli, Byron's lover while he was in Ravenna, wrote her Recollections of Lord Byron after he died and these are some of the chapters:
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Everybody is talking about this new Roman Empire thing, but the real question is: how many times do you think about that cloudy day in 1816 when Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Polidori challenged eachother in creating the spookiest story ever and "The vampire" and "Frankenstein: the modern Prometheus" were born? Because for me, it happens on a daily basis.
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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"
Lord Byron, 1817
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She Walks in Beauty, George Gordon Byron
[ Text ID: So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, ]
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𝙻𝚘𝚛𝚍 𝙱𝚢𝚛𝚘𝚗,
𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍𝚎 𝙷𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚍'𝚜 𝙿𝚒𝚕𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚎
[𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚙𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝟷𝟾𝟷𝟸]
[ID: There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, END ID]
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Thinking about him (Lord Byron)...
From his poetics to his superstition to his pet bear, certainly a figure to look into.
Bust of Lord Byron. 1830–70. The Metropolitan Museum of Art.
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There Is Pleasure in the Pathless Wood
by George Gordon Byron
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes,
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean -- roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin -- his control
Stops with the shore; -- upon the watery plain
The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
A shadow of man’s ravage, save his own,
When for a moment, like a drop of rain,
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.
His steps are not upon thy paths, -- thy fields
Are not a spoil for him, -- thou dost arise
And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
For earth’s destruction thou dost all despise,
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
His petty hope in some near port or bay,
And dashest him again to earth: -- there let him lay.
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Percy Shelley doodling while helping his wife edit the draft of her first novel, Frankenstein; or, The Modern Prometheus (1818):
The idea for the story was devised in mid-June 1816. The draft shown here was written between August and December 1816, and it was revised until April 1817. The book was published January 1st 1818 when Mary was 20-years-old. She was only 18 when she conceived the story, as her 19th birthday was on August 30th 1816.
Source: The Shelley-Godwin Archive online
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For the last time: Mary Shelley and Lord Byron were friends. She didn't hate him. His death was a very painful loss to her. She didn't write Frankenstein because she was stuck in a house with him and he was an unbearable person. For God's sake, just read her journals and letters.
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🌼 poems that held my hand in may 🌼
Nocturne, Li-Young Lee
Your Name, Vahan Tekeyan
Sonnets to Orpheus 2;29, Rainer Maria Rilke
I stopped going to therapy, Clementine von Radics
Miyazaki Bloom, Nina Mingya Powles
The Quiet Machine, Ada Limón
When we two parted, Lord Byron
Fragment, Amy Lowell
The Want of You, Angelina Weld Grimké
When Did It Happen?, Mary Oliver
Alone, Sara Teasdale
Peace XVIII, Khalil Gibran
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