Lord Byron - Childe Harold's Pilgrimage

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Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form Glasses itself in tempests.

Lord Byron
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone—man with his God must strive.

Lord Byron
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

Lord Byron
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

Lord Byron
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!
Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!

Lord Byron
If from society we learn to live,
'Tis solitude should teach us how to die.

Lord Byron
Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.

Lord Byron
War, war is still the cry, "War even to the knife!"

Lord Byron
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

Lord Byron
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,
Not for thy faults, but mine.

Lord Byron
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.

Lord Byron
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers.

Lord Byron
The Lord of the unerring bow,
The God of life, and poesy, and light.

Lord Byron
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be Borne, like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy I wanton'd with thy breakers.

Lord Byron
Gone—glimmering through the dream of things that were.

Lord Byron