But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell,
And there has been thy bane; there is a fire And motion of the soul which will not dwell In its own narrow being, but aspire
Beyond the fitting medium of desire;
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.
—Lord Byron