Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto, Wished him five fathom under the Rialto. - Lord Byron

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt
In solitude, where we are least alone.

I said with men, and with the thoughts of men,
I held but slight communion; but instead,
My joy was in the wilderness — to breathe
The difficult air of the iced mountain's top,
Where the birds dare not build — nor insect's wing
Flit o'er the herbless granite; or to plunge
Into the torrent, and to roll along
On the swift whirl of the new-breaking wave
Of river-stream, or Ocean, in their flow.
In these my early strength exulted; or
To follow through the night the moving moon,
The stars and their development; or catch
The dazzling lightnings till my eyes grew dim;
Or to look, list'ning, on the scattered leaves,
While Autumn winds were at their evening song.
These were my pastimes, and to be alone... [...]

Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb; and life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.