George Gordon Noel Byron

And I have loved them, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
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And I have loved them, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like shy bubbles, onward; from a boy
I wanton'd with thy breakers.
. . . .
And laid my hand upon thy mane--as I do here.

And whispering, "I will ne'er consent," consented.

And whispering, "I will ne'er consent," consented.

O Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
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O Fame!--if I e'er took delight in thy praises,
'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases,
Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover
She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.

'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch,
For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch.

'Twas blow for blow, disputing inch by inch,
For one would not retreat, nor t'other flinch.

Sorrow preys upon
Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it
From its sad visions of the other read more

Sorrow preys upon
Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it
From its sad visions of the other world
Than calling it at moments back to this.
The busy have no time for tears.