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.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch read more

Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears.
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things.

Perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.

"Farewell!"
For in that word--that fatal word--howe'er
We promise--hope--believe--there breathes despair.

"Farewell!"
For in that word--that fatal word--howe'er
We promise--hope--believe--there breathes despair.