Monday, November 26, 2007

When, to their airy hall, my father's voice
Shall call my spirit, joyful in their choice;
When, pois'd upon the gale, my form shall ride,
Or, dark in mist, descend the mountain's side;
Oh! may my shade behold no sculptur'd urns,
To mark the spot, where earth to earth returns:
No lengthen'd scroll, no praise encumber'd stone;
My epitaph shall be, my name alone:
If that with honor fail to crown my clay,
Oh! may no other fame my deeds repay,
That, only that, shall single out the spot,
By that remember'd, or with that forgot.

A Fragment, by Lord Byron


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