Shadow! or Spirit! Whatever thou art, Which still doth inherit The whole or a part Of the form of thy birth, Of the mould of thy clay, Which returned… - Lord Byron

Que vergonha! Não quero ir para o Inferno! (I'm very sorry, very much ashmed,)
Juro regenerar-me antes do inverno. (And mean next winter to be quite reclaimed)

Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.

Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.

As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne'er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.