George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
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.
Think not I am what I appear.
Think not I am what I appear.
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, read more
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
- Lord Byron (George Gordon Noel Byron),
This is to be along; this, this is solitude!
This is to be along; this, this is solitude!
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.
The power of Thought,--the magic of the Mind!
The power of Thought,--the magic of the Mind!
Whatsoe'er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.
Whatsoe'er thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.
Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime.
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time;
Mad wag! who pardon'd none, read more
Farce follow'd Comedy, and reach'd her prime.
In ever-laughing Foote's fantastic time;
Mad wag! who pardon'd none, nor spared the best,
And turn'd some very serious things to jest.
Nor church nor state escaped his public sneers,
Arms nor the gown, priests, lawyers, volunteers;
"Alas, poor Yorick!" now forever mute!
Whoever loves a laugh must sigh for Foote.
We smile, perforce, when histrionic scenes
Ape the swoln dialogue of kings and queens,
When "Chrononhotonthelogos must die,"
And Arthur struts in mimic majesty.
The best of prophets of the future is the past.
The best of prophets of the future is the past.
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth.
A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth.
