George Gordon Noel Byron

I have not loved the world, not the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
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I have not loved the world, not the world me;
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor bow'd
To its idolatries a patient knee.

For everything seemed resting on his nod,
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them,
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For everything seemed resting on his nod,
As they could read in all eyes. Now to them,
Who were accustomed, as a sort of god,
To see the sultan, rich in many a gem,
Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad
(That royal bird, whose tail's a diadem,)
With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt
How power could condescend to do without.

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
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The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
Of aid from them--she was the Universe.

Smiles form the channels of a future tear.

Smiles form the channels of a future tear.

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste.

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,
All ashes to the taste.