A great poet belongs to no country; his works are public property, and his Memoirs the inheritance of the public. - Lord Byron

But now at thirty years my hair is gray––
(I wonder what it will be like at forty?
I thought of a peruke the other day)
My heart is not much greener; and, in short, I
Have squander'd my whole summer while 'twas May,
And feel no more the spirit to retort; I
Have spent my life, both interest and principal,
And deem not, what I deem'd my soul invincible.

This should have been a noble creature: he/ Hath all the energy which would have made/ A goodly frame of glorious elements,/ Had they been wisely mingled; as it is,/ It is an awful chaos-light and darkness-/ And mind and dust- and passions and pure thoughts,/ Mix'd, and contending without end or order,/ All dormant or destructive/

To strive too with our fate were such a strife
As if the corn-sheaf should oppose the sickle:
Men are the sport of circumstances, when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.