Lord Byron

Where'er we tread, 't is haunted, holy ground.

Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"

Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.

The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.

Words are things, and a small drop if ink, Falling like dew upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

The great art of life is the sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state: An hour may lay it in the dust.

Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires, And decorate the verse herself inspires: This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,- Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar, Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore.

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