George Gordon Noel Byron

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants!
And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants!
And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

There comes
For ever something between us and what
We deem our happiness.

There comes
For ever something between us and what
We deem our happiness.

When health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring.

When health, affrighted, spreads her rosy wing,
And flies with every changing gale of spring.

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so
fast,
But the tender bloom of read more

'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so
fast,
But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

'Tis solitude should teach us how to die;
It hath no flatterers; vanity can give
No hollow read more

'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.