“ The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness ”
Lord Byron, Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (1812). copy citation
| Author | Lord Byron |
|---|---|
| Source | Childe Harold's Pilgrimage |
| Topic | darkness life |
| Date | 1812 |
| Language | English |
| Reference | |
| Note | |
| Weblink | http://www.gutenberg.org/files/5131/5131-h/5131-h.htm |
Context
“All are not fit with them to stir and toil, Nor is it discontent to keep the mind Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil In one hot throng, where we become the spoil Of our infection, till too late and long We may deplore and struggle with the coil, In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong Midst a contentious world, striving where none are strong.
LXX.
There, in a moment, we may plunge our years In fatal penitence, and in the blight Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears, And colour things to come with hues of Night; The race of life becomes a hopeless flight To those that walk in darkness: on the sea, The boldest steer but where their ports invite, But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchored ne'er shall be.
LXXI.
Is it not better, then, to be alone, And love Earth only for its earthly sake?”
source
