George Gordon Noel Byron ( 10 of 329 )
What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some read more
What is the end of Fame? 'tis but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper:
Some liken it to climbing up a hill,
Whose summit, like all hills, is lost in vapour:
For this men write, speak, preach, and heroes kill,
And bards burn what they call their "midnight taper,"
To have, when the original is dust,
A name, a wretched picture, and worse bust.
'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.
'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.
The music, and the banquet, and the wine--
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers,
The read more
The music, and the banquet, and the wine--
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers,
The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments--
The white arms and the raven hair--the braids,
And bracelets; swan-like bosoms, and the necklace,
An India in itself, yet dazzling not.
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things read more
Yet how much less it were to gain,
Though thou hast left me free,
The loveliest things that still remain,
Than thus remember thee.
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.
From thy own smile I snatched the snake.
From thy own smile I snatched the snake.
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter."
And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.
When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter."
And proved it--'t was no matter what he said.
I have a passion for the name of "Mary,"
For once it was a magic sound to me,
read more
I have a passion for the name of "Mary,"
For once it was a magic sound to me,
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be.
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
read more
Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime,
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madded to crime?
Till taught by pain,
Men really know not what good water's worth;
If you had been in read more
Till taught by pain,
Men really know not what good water's worth;
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famish'd boat's-crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camel's bell,
You'd wish yourself where Truth is--in a well.
