What helps it now, that Byron bore, With haughty scorn which mocked the smart, Through Europe to the Aetolian shore The pageant of his bleeding heart? That thousands counted every groan, And Europe made his woe her own?
They bore within their breasts the grief That fame can never heal The deep, unutterable woe
Woe unto him that striveth with his Maker! Let the potsherd strive with the potsherds of the earth. Shall the clay say to him that fashioneth it,What makest thou? or thy work, He hath no hands?
I wander through each charter'd street, Near where the charter'd Thames does flow, And mark in every face I meet Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
Man was made for Joyand Woe, And when this we rightly know, Thro'the world we safely go. Joy and Woe are woven fine, A clothing for the soul divine.
And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, Land of lost gods and godlike men! art thou!
This world nys but a thurghfare ful of wo, And we been pilgrymes, passynge to and fro.
O thou, the friend of man assigned, With balmy hands his wounds to bind, And charm his frantic woe: When first Distress with dagger keen Broke forth to waste his destined scene, His wild unsated foe!
To fight aloud, is very brave, But gallanter, I know, Who charge within the bosom The Cavalry of Woe.
There is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness.
A dungeon horrible, on all sides round As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Served only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all.
Ah gentle pair, ye little think how nigh Your change approaches, when all these delights Will vanish and deliver ye to woe, More woe, the more your taste is now of joy.
Flesh of flesh, Bone of my bone thou art, and from thy state Mine never shall be parted, bliss or woe.
Teach me to feel another's woe; To hide the fault I see; That mercy I to others show, That mercy show to me.
Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone, But grief returns with the revolving year.
Our Adonais has drunk poisonoh! What deaf and viperous murderer could crown Life's early cup with such a draught of woe?
Come sleep,O sleep, the certain knot of peace, The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe, The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release, The indifferent judge between the high and low.
Thou has been called,O Sleep! the friend of Woe, But 'tis the happy who have called thee so.
Alas! so all things now do hold their peace, Heaven and earth disturbed in no thing Calm is the sea, the waves work less and less; So am not I whom love, alas, doth wring, Bringing before my face the great increase Of my desires, whereat I weep and sing, In joy and woe, as in a doubtful ease. For my sweet thoughts sometime do pleasure bring, But by and by the cause of my disease Gives me a pang that inwardly doth sting, When that I think what grief it is again To live and lack the thing should rid my pain.
Peace; come away: the song of woe Is after all an earthly song: Peace; come away: we do him wrong To sing so wildly: let us go.
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