To Inez Nay, smile not at my sullen brow; alas! I cannot smile again: yet heavan avert that ever thou shoudst weep, and haply weep in vain And dost thou ask what secret woe I bear corroding joy and youth? And wilt thou vainly seek to know A pang, evn thou must fail to soothe It is not love, it is not hate, nor low ambition's honours lost , That bids me loathe my present state, And fly from all I prized the most; It is that weariness which springs from all I meet, or hear, or see; To me no pleasure Beauty brings Thine eyes have scare a charm for me. It is that settleed, ceaseless gloom The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore; That will not look beyond the tomb, but cannot hope for rest before. What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where-e' er I be, The blight of life-the demon Thought Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, and taste of all that I forsake: Oh, may they still of transport dream, and ne'er at least like me, awake! Through many a clime't is mine to go with many a retrospection curst; And all my solace is to know, What e'er betides I've known the worst. What is that worst? Nay do not ask - In pity from the search forbear; Smile on, nor venture to unmask Mans heart and view the hell thats there Lord Byron