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Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a part
Of me and of my soul, as I of them?
Is not the love of these deep in my heart
With a pure passion? should I not contemn
All objects, if compared with these? and stem
A tide of suffering, rather than forego
Such feelings for the hard and worldly phlegm
Of those whose eyes are only turned below,
Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which dare not glow?
Obra: Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. XXX. LXXV. Blackmask Online, 2000. De George Gordon Byron (UK/London, 1788-1824).
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