George Gordon Noel Byron

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

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

Blushed like the waves of hell.

Blushed like the waves of hell.

I stood
Among them, but not of them: in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their read more

I stood
Among them, but not of them: in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
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It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
Which then seems as if the whole earth is bounded,
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still,
With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill
Upon the other, and the rosy sky
With one star sparkling through it like an eye.