George Gordon Byron

(22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824 / London, England)

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods - Poem by George Gordon Byron

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more,
From these our interviews, in which I steal
From all I may be, or have been before,
To mingle with the Universe, and feel
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.


Comments about There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods by George Gordon Byron

  • Freshman - 744 Points val Rogers (4/8/2015 8:35:00 PM)

    This introduces human nature in relation to mother nature. (Report) Reply

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  • Silver Star - 3,678 Points John Richter (4/8/2015 3:00:00 PM)

    Serenity in solitude - even the greatest playboy of all time needed to balance his life with it.... That certainly makes me feel that Lord Byron, in base, is the same as the rest of us... How wonderful me time can be... I think those special moments that we spend alone, nurturing our own souls in a wash of blank thought and communion with nature are beautiful and can be great inspiration for our own poetry. Byron speaks about it in general terms here but it is sheer inspiration - as I think a lot of his poetry is. Another hurrah for GG Byron! (Report) Reply

  • Gold Star - 29,194 Points Gangadharan Nair Pulingat (4/8/2015 9:57:00 AM)

    A lovely poem in which the great poet opens his mind and states that he likes much the nature, and also to mingle with universe. A great poem. (Report) Reply

  • Veteran Poet - 1,065 Points Panmelys Panmelys (4/8/2015 4:07:00 AM)

    As I myself relate entirely to this lovely poem, of course I can only say I've enjoyed its message, and feel happy to share what others sho write so well. Great poem, I like it. Even with the extention it sands as a monument to man's mistakes with nature, especially relevant today, so again, greatness has no age, it simply remiains great and fresh, Lord Byron bemoans his own delapitdated state, and relates man's stupidity both to himself and with nature. At least it's my feeling felt. Panmelys (Report) Reply

  • Rookie - 244 Points John S (3/11/2015 12:30:00 AM)

    How is this not a 10? Although, as mentioned several times below this poem is incomplete and someone should add the completed version. (Report) Reply

  • Gold Star - 14,297 Points * Sunprincess * (7/12/2014 8:38:00 PM)

    ..........enjoyed this beautiful poem.....truly wherever we find pleasure we will find happiness... (Report) Reply

  • Rookie Francois Arouet (3/17/2013 6:10:00 PM)

    Wanikki: Not exactly correct. This is the full one full stanza from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, Canto The Fourth, stanza CLXXVIII (178) . The stansa that ends And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay. is the last line of CLXXX (180) . This last Canto contains 186 stanza (CLXXXVI) That final stanza of the long poem with the lines, “Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been— A sound which makes us linger; yet, farewell! ...” (Report) Reply

  • Rookie Wanikki C (9/14/2012 7:34:00 PM)

    i love this poem but, alas, it's not complete (see below) (Report) Reply

  • Rookie Wanikki C (9/14/2012 7:34:00 PM)

    i love this poem but, alas, it's not complete! (see below) (Report) Reply

  • Rookie Wanikki C (9/14/2012 7:33:00 PM)

    There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
    There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
    There is society where none intrudes,
    By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
    I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
    From these our interviews, in which I steal
    From all I may be, or have been before,
    To mingle with the Universe, and feel
    What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

    Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll!
    Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
    Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
    Stops with the shore; -upon the watery plain
    The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
    A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
    When for a moment, like a dropp of rain,
    He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
    Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

    His steps are not upon thy paths, -thy fields
    Are not a spoil for him, -thou dost arise
    And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
    For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
    Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
    And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
    And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
    His petty hope in some near port or bay,
    And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.

    ~by Lord George Gordon Byron, from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Report) Reply

    Gold Star - 7,925 Points Frank Avon (4/8/2015 1:50:00 PM)

    Thank you for putting this brief canto in context. The context gives an altogether different meaning to the poem and raises it even higher in its rhetorical and thematic significance.

  • Rookie Wanikki C (9/14/2012 7:32:00 PM)

    There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
    There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
    There is society where none intrudes,
    By the deep Sea, and music in its roar:
    I love not Man the less, but Nature more,
    From these our interviews, in which I steal
    From all I may be, or have been before,
    To mingle with the Universe, and feel
    What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all conceal.

    Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean-roll!
    Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
    Man marks the earth with ruin-his control
    Stops with the shore; -upon the watery plain
    The wrecks are all thy deed, nor doth remain
    A shadow of man's ravage, save his own,
    When for a moment, like a dropp of rain,
    He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
    Without a grave, unknelled, uncoffined, and unknown.

    His steps are not upon thy paths, -thy fields
    Are not a spoil for him, -thou dost arise
    And shake him from thee; the vile strength he wields
    For earth's destruction thou dost all despise,
    Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies,
    And send'st him, shivering in thy playful spray
    And howling, to his gods, where haply lies
    His petty hope in some near port or bay,
    And dashest him again to earth: —there let him lay.

    ~by Lord George Gordon Byron, from Childe Harold's Pilgrimage (Report) Reply

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, March 25, 2010



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