George Gordon Noel Byron

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
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There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar.

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye
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A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy;
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown
On a fool's head--and there is London Town.

Men are the sport of circumstances, when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.

Men are the sport of circumstances, when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand;
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I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand;
I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.

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

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