Thursday, January 28, 2010

Holidays In Tartarus

He who, grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him; nor below
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance: he can tell
Why thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpaired, though old, in the soul's haunted cell.

Little Georgie Gordon


Rob De Witt said...

Wow. Byron really knew what it means to have a lot of mileage, didn't he?

Beautiful post, and an exquisite birthday card for Mozart yesterday, too.

Sixty Grit said...

No push sticks, no fence, no blade guard, no safety glasses, no hearing protection, no belt covers, no dust collection - it's a wonder anyone survived.