Читать книгу Don Juan (With Byron's Biography) - Lord Byron - Страница 114

Silent and pensive, idle, restless, slow,

His home deserted for the lonely wood,

Tormented with a wound he could not know,

His, like all deep grief, plunged in solitude:

I'm fond myself of solitude or so,

But then, I beg it may be understood,

By solitude I mean a Sultan's (not

A Hermit's), with a haram for a grot.