George Gordon Noel Byron

What exile from himself can flee?
To zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where'er read more

What exile from himself can flee?
To zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, where'er I be,
The blight of life--the demon Thought.

Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!

Oh, for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!

As good as a play.

As good as a play.

There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's read more

There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless chimes and starry skies;
And all that's best read more

She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless chimes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.