I live not in myself, but I become Portion of that around me: and to me High mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture. - Lord Byron

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

Oh! may my shade behold no sculptured urns,
To mark the spot where earth to earth returns!
No lengthen’d scroll, no praise-encumber’d stone;
My epitaph shall be my name alone:

What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger
Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head,
And what a whirl-pool full of depth and danger
Is all the rest about her! Whether wed,
Or widow, maid or mother, she can change her
Mind like the wind: whatever she has said
Or done, is light to what she’ll say or do; — The oldest thing on record, and yet new!