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Muestra 4

What could I be? Proscribed at home, And taunted to a wish to roam; And listless left—for Giaffir's fear Denied the courser and the spear— Though oft—Oh, Mahomet! how oft!— In full Divan the despot scoff'd, As if my weak unwilling hand Refused the bridle or the brand. He ever went to war alone,

Muestra 5

And pent me here untried, unknown; To Haroun's care with women left, By hope unblest, of fame bereft, While thou—whose softness long endear'd, Though it unmann'd me, still had cheer'd— To Brusa's walls for safety sent, Awaitedst there the field's event.

Muestra 6

Oh, thou, in Hellas deemed of heavenly birth, Muse, formed or fabled at the minstrel's will! Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred hill: Yet there I've wandered by thy vaunted rill; Yes! sighed o'er Delphi's long-deserted shrine Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still; Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine To grace so plain a tale—this lowly lay of mine.

Muestra 7

Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, Who ne in virtue's ways did take delight; But spent his days in riot most uncouth, And vexed with mirth the drowsy ear of Night. Ah, me! in sooth he was a shameless wight, Sore given to revel and ungodly glee; Few earthly things found favour in his sight Save concubines and carnal companie, And flaunting wassailers of high and low degree.

Muestra 8

Childe Harold was he hight:—but whence his name And lineage long, it suits me not to say; Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, And had been glorious in another day: But one sad losel soils a name for aye, However mighty in the olden time; Nor all that heralds rake from coffined clay, Nor florid prose, nor honeyed lines of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

Muestra 9

Childe Harold basked him in the noontide sun, Disporting there like any other fly, Nor deemed before his little day was done One blast might chill him into misery. But long ere scarce a third of his passed by, Worse than adversity the Childe befell; He felt the fulness of satiety: Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, Which seemed to him more lone than eremite's sad cell.

Muestra 10

For he through Sin's long labyrinth had run, Nor made atonement when he did amiss, Had sighed to many, though he loved but one, And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his. Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose kiss Had been pollution unto aught so chaste; Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss, And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste, Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.

On weekends, my mother finally rests, usually waking up around 8 AM. She enjoys her coffee while checking social media before starting the laundry. Even on her days off, she prepares our favorite lunch by 1 PM. I really appreciate how she always takes care of us so well.