George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life!
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away,
read more
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life!
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away,
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung.
Where grew the read more
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung.
Where grew the arts of war and peace,--
Where Delos rose, and Phoebus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave.
Who track the steps of Glory to the grave.
Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch read more
Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears.
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There read more
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.
'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, read more
'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.
His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven.
His breast with wounds unnumber'd riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven.
Exhausting thought,
And having wisdom with each studious year.
Exhausting thought,
And having wisdom with each studious year.
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
For Freedom's battle once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!
Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!
