George Gordon Byron

(22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824 / London, England)

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods


There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

Submitted: Thursday, March 25, 2010

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  • * Sunprincess * (7/12/2014 8:38:00 PM)

    ..........enjoyed this beautiful poem.....truly wherever we find pleasure we will find happiness... (Report) Reply

  • Francois Arouet (3/17/2013 6:10:00 PM)

    Wanikki: Not exactly correct. This is the full one full stanza from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto The Fourth, stanza CLXXVIII (178) . The stansa that ends And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay. is the last line of CLXXX (180) . This last Canto contains 186 stanza (CLXXXVI) That final stanza of the long poem with the lines, “Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been— A sound which makes us linger; yet, farewell! ...” (Report) Reply

  • Wanikki C (9/14/2012 7:33:00 PM)

    There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
    There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
    There is society where none intrudes,
    By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
    I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
    From these our interviews, in which I steal
    From all I may be, or have been before,
    To mingle with the Universe, and feel
    What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

    Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll!
    Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
    Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
    Stops with the shore; -upon the watery plain
    The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
    A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
    When for a moment, like a dropp of rain,
    He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
    Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

    His steps are not upon thy paths, -thy fields
    Are not a spoil for him, -thou dost arise
    And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
    For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
    Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
    And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
    And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
    His petty hope in some near port or bay,
    And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.

    ~by Lord George Gordon Byron, from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Report) Reply

  • Wanikki C (9/14/2012 7:32:00 PM)

    There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
    There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
    There is society where none intrudes,
    By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
    I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
    From these our interviews, in which I steal
    From all I may be, or have been before,
    To mingle with the Universe, and feel
    What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

    Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll!
    Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
    Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
    Stops with the shore; -upon the watery plain
    The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
    A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
    When for a moment, like a dropp of rain,
    He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
    Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

    His steps are not upon thy paths, -thy fields
    Are not a spoil for him, -thou dost arise
    And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
    For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
    Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
    And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
    And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
    His petty hope in some near port or bay,
    And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.

    ~by Lord George Gordon Byron, from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Report) Reply

Read all 6 comments »

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