George Gordon Noel Byron

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
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Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider.

But every fool describes, in these bright days,
His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns read more

But every fool describes, in these bright days,
His wondrous journey to some foreign court,
And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,--
Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.