George Gordon Noel Byron

I am the very slave of circumstance
And impulse--borne away with every breath.

I am the very slave of circumstance
And impulse--borne away with every breath.

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!

Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!

Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow read more

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow aid; alone--man with his God must strive.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state;
An hour may lay it in the dust.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state;
An hour may lay it in the dust.