God hath often saw
Things here too dirty for the light of day;
For in a madhouse there exists no law
Now stagnant grows my too refined clay;
I envy birds their wings to fly away.
'Child Harold' (written 1841) l. 158
God hath often saw
Things here too dirty for the light of day;
For in a madhouse there exists no law
Now stagnant grows my too refined clay;
I envy birds their wings to fly away.
'Child Harold' (written 1841) l. 158