George Gordon Noel Byron

For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge read more

For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

He has grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life.
read more

He has grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life.
So that no wonder waits him.

The power of Thought,--the magic of the Mind!

The power of Thought,--the magic of the Mind!

Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din;
Whatever read more

Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din;
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod,
Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

There is no future pang
Can deal that justice on the self condemn'd
He deals on his read more

There is no future pang
Can deal that justice on the self condemn'd
He deals on his own soul.