Selv om jeg generelt er fuldt enig med Goethe i, at Byron er kun stor når han digter, ikke når han tænker, så bringer jeg dette kort udsnit fra Childre Harolds pilgrimage:
Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind;
Thy trumpet voice, though broken now and dying,
The loudest still the tempest leaves behind;
Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind,
Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little worth,
But the sap lasts, - and still the seed we find
Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North;
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring forth
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