Book: Pilgrimage Childe-Harold

Life is short, short her flight,
In judgment we do not tolerate differences.
Fake otheriwse our way.
In our rules, conventions, proprieties
Good by accident, evil is no obstacle,
Slaves of success, money and differences
The idea and the feeling of banning,
Prefer the dark, being irritated by the light.

Day - like a Dolphin who's dying,
Changes in colors only because
To become at the last moment, is most beautiful.

To whom, when white beard
Be prevented, as a young man, in love?
We love regardless of the year.

Love grows Il wither. Only stagnation
Uncharacteristic of her. Il to ashes turn,
Il will be a guiding star,
Which eternal light, eternal as the world system.

Wherefore not?
What matters where we fall to fill the maws
Of worms - on battle-plains or listed spot?
Both are but theatres where the chief actors rot.
Alas, not everyone does,
Where become a prey to corruption and worms,
Where to die: in the circus or on the battle field
Here and there a theatre, where death in the crown role.

There is the moral of all human tales:
’Tis but the same rehearsal of the past
So, that's the history lesson.
Not change the essence, only the date.

...of which the weary breast
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart divest.
What's different, Oh God,
Than years remember when you were younger!

Inevitable hour! ’Gainst fate to strive
Where Desolation plants her famished brood
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive,
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to thrive.
Oh, if a mortal could
To deal with the inevitable fate!
Not lost b Troy, Tyr had not grown weary
Good, not perished, would not the ruled Vice.

Yet, peace be with their ashes, - for by them,
If merited, the penalty is paid;
It is not ours to judge, far less condemn.
The world is sleeping! Those who deserve punishment,
Already judged in heaven.
Not for us to judge someone who sleeps in the grave!

There is no god but God! - to prayer - lo! God is great!
Pray, God is one! There is no God but God!

For who would trust the seeming sighs
Of wife or paramour?
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes
We late saw streaming o'er.
I know the tears of women ' nonsense,
In them the permanence there.
Another will come, will captivate their eyes
And tears has gone missing and the trail.