George Gordon Noel Byron

A mere court butterfly,
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch.

A mere court butterfly,
That flutters in the pageant of a monarch.

That famish'd people must be slowly nurst,
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.

That famish'd people must be slowly nurst,
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, read more

'Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is mask'd but to assail.

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!