Lord Byron

The stars are forth, the moon above the tops Of the snow-shining mountains. Beautiful! I linger yet with Nature, for the Night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness,

Whate'er I may have been, or am, doth rest between Heaven and myself; I shall not choose a mortal To be my mediator.

Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.

From my youth upwards My spirit walk'd not with the souls of men, Nor look'd upon the earth with human eyes; The thirst of their ambition was not mine, The aim of their existence was not mine; My joys, my griefs, my passions, and my powers

Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine Have made my days and nights imperishable Endless, and all alike, as sands on the shore Innumerable atoms; and one desert Barren and cold, on which the …

Patience! Hence—that word was made For brutes of burthen, not for birds of prey; Preach it to mortals of a dust like thine,— I am not of thine order.

But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we, Half dust, half deity, alike unfit To sink or soar.

My mother Earth! And thou fresh breaking Day, and you, ye Mountains, Why are ye beautiful? I cannot love ye. And thou, the bright eye of the universe, That openest over all, and unto all Art a delight—thou shin'st not on my heart.

By thy cold breast and serpent smile, By thy unfathom'd gulfs of guile, By that most seeming virtuous eye, By thy shut soul's hypocrisy; By the perfection of thine art Which pass'd for human thine own heart;

Mont Blanc is the Monarch of mountains; They crowned him long ago, On a throne of rocks — in a robe of clouds – With a Diadem of Snow.

Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth, The Tree of Knowledge is not that of Life.

Triumphant where it dares defy, And making Death a Victory.

A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind

The wretched gift eternity Was thine — and thou hast borne it well.

Titan! to thee the strife was given Between the suffering and the will, Which torture where they cannot kill

What was thy pity's recompense? A silent suffering, and intense

And they were canopied by the blue sky, So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

She was his life, The ocean to the river of his thoughts, Which terminated all.

And to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him.

And both were young, and one was beautiful.

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, And broke the die, in molding Sheridan.

Who track the steps of glory to the grave.