George Gordon Noel Byron

Perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy!

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy!

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.

And to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on read more

And to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him.

I stood
Among them, but not of them: in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their read more

I stood
Among them, but not of them: in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.