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Best Famous George (Lord) Byron Poems

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Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

When We Two Parted

When we two parted
  In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
  To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
  Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
  Sorrow to this.
The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow— It felt like the warning Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame.
They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me— Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well— Long, long shall I rue thee, To deeply to tell.
In secret we met— In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?— With silence and tears.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in Beauty, like the night 
Of cloudless climes and starry skies; 
And all that's best of dark and bright 
Meet in her aspect and her eyes: 
Thus mellowed to that tender light 
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express, How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

All for Love

O TALK not to me of a name great in story; 
The days of our youth are the days of our glory; 
And the myrtle and ivy of sweet two-and-twenty 
Are worth all your laurels though ever so plenty.
What are garlands and crowns to the brow that is wrinkled? 5 'Tis but as a dead flower with May-dew besprinkled: Then away with all such from the head that is hoary¡ª What care I for the wreaths that can only give glory? O Fame! if I e'er took delight in thy praises 'Twas less for the sake of thy high-sounding phrases 10 Than to see the bright eyes of the dear one discover She thought that I was not unworthy to love her.
There chiefly I sought thee there only I found thee; Her glance was the best of the rays that surround thee; When it sparkled o'er aught that was bright in my story 15 I knew it was love and I felt it was glory.

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Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

Youth and Age

THERE'S not a joy the world can give like that it takes away 
When the glow of early thought declines in feeling's dull decay; 
'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone which fades so fast  
But the tender bloom of heart is gone ere youth itself be past.
Then the few whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness 5 Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt or ocean of excess: The magnet of their course is gone or only points in vain The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never stretch again.
Then the mortal coldness of the soul like death itself comes down; It cannot feel for others' woes it dare not dream its own; 10 That heavy chill has frozen o'er the fountain of our tears And though the eye may sparkle still 'tis where the ice appears.
Though wit may flash from fluent lips and mirth distract the breast Through midnight hours that yield no more their former hope of rest 'Tis but as ivy-leaves around the ruin'd turret wreathe 15 All green and wildly fresh without but worn and gray beneath.
Oh could I feel as I have felt or be what I have been Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd scene ¡ª As springs in deserts found seem sweet all brackish though they be So midst the wither'd waste of life those tears would flow to me! 20

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

There be none of Beautys daughters

THERE be none of Beauty's daughters 
With a magic like thee; 
And like music on the waters 
Is thy sweet voice to me: 
When as if its sound were causing 5 
The charmed ocean's pausing  
The waves lie still and gleaming  
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming: 

And the midnight moon is weaving 
Her bright chain o'er the deep 10 
Whose breast is gently heaving 
As an infant's asleep: 
So the spirit bows before thee 
To listen and adore thee; 
With a full but soft emotion 15 
Like the swell of summer's ocean.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

Elegy on Thyrza

AND thou art dead as young and fair 
As aught of mortal birth; 
And form so soft and charms so rare 
Too soon return'd to Earth! 
Though Earth received them in her bed 5 
And o'er the spot the crowd may tread 
In carelessness or mirth  
There is an eye which could not brook 
A moment on that grave to look.
I will not ask where thou liest low 10 Nor gaze upon the spot; There flowers or weeds at will may grow So I behold them not: It is enough for me to prove That what I loved and long must love 15 Like common earth can rot; To me there needs no stone to tell 'Tis Nothing that I loved so well.
Yet did I love thee to the last As fervently as thou 20 Who didst not change through all the past And canst not alter now.
The love where Death has set his seal Nor age can chill nor rival steal Nor falsehood disavow; 25 And what were worse thou canst not see Or wrong or change or fault in me.
The better days of life were ours The worst can be but mine; The sun that cheers the storm that lours 30 Shall never more be thine.
The silence of that dreamless sleep I envy now too much to weep; Nor need I to repine That all those charms have pass'd away 35 I might have watch'd through long decay.
The flower in ripen'd bloom unmatch'd Must fall the earliest prey; Though by no hand untimely snatch'd.
The leaves must drop away.
40 And yet it were a greater grief To watch it withering leaf by leaf Than see it pluck'd to-day; Since earthly eye but ill can bear To trace the change to foul from fair.
45 I know not if I could have borne To see thy beauties fade; The night that follow'd such a morn Had worn a deeper shade.
Thy day without a cloud hath pass'd 50 And thou wert lovely to the last Extinguish'd not decay'd; As stars that shoot along the sky Shine brightest as they fall from high.
As once I wept if I could weep 55 My tears might well be shed To think I was not near to keep One vigil o'er thy bed¡ª To gaze how fondly! on thy face To fold thee in a faint embrace 60 Uphold thy drooping head And show that love however vain Nor thou nor I can feel again.
Yet how much less it were to gain Though thou hast left me free 65 The loveliest things that still remain Than thus remember thee! The all of thine that cannot die Through dark and dread eternity Returns again to me 70 And more thy buried love endears Than aught except its living years.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |


OH snatch'd away in beauty's bloom! 
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; 
But on thy turf shall roses rear 
Their leaves the earliest of the year  
And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom: 5 

And oft by yon blue gushing stream 
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head  
And feed deep thought with many a dream  
And lingering pause and lightly tread; 
Fond wretch! as if her step disturb'd the dead! 10 

Away! we know that tears are vain  
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress: 
Will this unteach us to complain? 
Or make one mourner weep the less? 
And thou who tell'st me to forget 15 
Thy looks are wan thine eyes are wet.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

On the Castle of Chillon

ETERNAL Spirit of the chainless Mind! 
Brightest in dungeons Liberty! thou art  
For there thy habitation is the heart¡ª 
The heart which love of Thee alone can bind.
And when thy sons to fetters are consign'd 5 To fetters and the damp vault's dayless gloom Their country conquers with their martyrdom And Freedom's fame finds wings on every wind.
Chillon! thy prison is a holy place And thy sad floor an altar for 'twas trod 10 Until his very steps have left a trace Worn as if thy cold pavement were a sod By Bonnivard! May none those marks efface! For they appeal from tyranny to God.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |


Written by George (Lord) Byron | |


 In law an infant, and in years a boy,
In mind a slave to every vicious joy;
From every sense of shame and virtue wean'd;
In lies an adept, in deceit a fiend;
Versed in hypocrisy, while yet a child;
Fickle as wind, of inclinations wild;
Women his dupe, his heedless friend a tool;
Old in the world, though scarcely broke from school;
Dam?tas ran through all the maze of sin,
And found the goal when others just begin:
Even still conflicting passions shake his soul,
And bid him drain the dregs of pleasure's bowl;
But, pall'd with vice, he breaks his former chain,
And what was once his bliss appears his bane.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

So Well Go No More a-Roving

 So we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart still be as loving,
And the moon still be as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

Thou Whose Spell Can Raise the Dead

 Thou whose spell can raise the dead, 
Bid the prophet's form appear.
"Samuel, raise thy buried head! "King, behold the phantom seer!" Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud: Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.
Death stood all glassy in the fixed eye: His hand was withered, and his veins were dry; His foot, in bony whiteness, glitterd there, Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare; From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame, Like cavern'd winds the hollow acccents came.
Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak, At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.
"Why is my sleep disquieted? "Who is he that calls the dead? "Is it thou, Oh King? Behold "Bloodless are these limbs, and cold: "Such are mine; and such shall be "Thine, to-morrow, when with me: "Ere the coming day is done, "Such shalt thou be, such thy son.
"Fare thee well, but for a day, "Then we mix our mouldering clay.
"Thou, thy race, lie pale and low, "Pierced by shafts of many a bow; "And the falchion by thy side, "To thy heart, thy hand shall guide: "Crownless, breathless, headless fall, "Son and sire, the house of Saul!"

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

Stanzas To Jessy

 There is a mystic thread of life
So dearly wreath'd with mine alone,
That Destiny's relentless knife
At once must sever both, or none.
There is a Form on which these eyes Have fondly gazed with such delight--- By day, that Form their joy supplies, And Dreams restore it, through the night.
There is a Voice whose tones inspire Such softened feelings in my breast, I would not hear a Seraph Choir, Unless that voice could join the rest.
There is a Face whose Blushes tell Affection's tale upon the cheek, But pallid at our fond farewell, Proclaims more love than words can speak.
There is a Lip, which mine has prest, But none had ever prest before; It vowed to make me sweetly blest, That mine alone should press it more.
There is a Bosom all my own, Has pillow'd oft this aching head, A Mouth which smiles on me alone, An Eye, whose tears with mine are shed.
There are two Hearts whose movements thrill, In unison so closely sweet, That Pulse to Pulse responsive still They Both must heave, or cease to beat.
There are two Souls, whose equal flow In gentle stream so calmly run, That when they part---they part?---ah no! They cannot part---those Souls are One.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

Remember Him Whom Passions Power

 Remember him, whom Passion's power
Severely---deeply---vainly proved:
Remember thou that dangerous hour,
When neither fell, though both were loved.
That yielding breast, that melting eye, Too much invited to be blessed: That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh, The wilder wish reproved, repressed.
Oh! let me feel that all I lost But saved thee all that Conscience fears; And blush for every pang it cost To spare the vain remorse of years.
Yet think of this when many a tongue, Whose busy accents whisper blame, Would do the heart that loved thee wrong, And brand a nearly blighted name.
Think that, whate'er to others, thou Hast seen each selfish thought subdued: I bless thy purer soul even now, Even now, in midnight solitude.
Oh, God! that we had met in time, Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free; When thou hadst loved without a crime, And I been less unworthy thee! Far may thy days, as heretofore, From this our gaudy world be past! And that too bitter moment o'er, Oh! may such trial be thy last.
This heart, alas! perverted long, Itself destroyed might there destroy; To meet thee in the glittering throng, Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.
Then to the things whose bliss or woe, Like mine, is wild and worthless all, That world resign---such scenes forego, Where those who feel must surely fall.
Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness--- Thy soul from long seclusion pure; From what even here hath passed, may guess What there thy bosom must endure.
Oh! pardon that imploring tear, Since not by Virtue shed in vain, My frenzy drew from eyes so dear; For me they shall not weep again.
Though long and mournful must it be, The thought that we no more may meet; Yet I deserve the stern decree, And almost deem the sentence sweet.
Still---had I loved thee less---my heart Had then less sacrificed to thine; It felt not half so much to part As if its guilt had made thee mine.

Written by George (Lord) Byron | |

Sonnet to Lake Leman

 Rousseau -- Voltaire -- our Gibbon -- De Sta?l -- 
Leman! these names are worthy of thy shore, 
Thy shore of names like these! wert thou no more, 
Their memory thy remembrance would recall: 
To them thy banks were lovely as to all, 
But they have made them lovelier, for the lore 
Of mighty minds doth hallow in the core 
Of human hearts the ruin of a wall 
Where dwelt the wise and wondrous; but by thee 
How much more, Lake of Beauty! do we feel, 
In sweetly gliding o'er thy crystal sea, 
The wild glow of that not ungentle zeal, 
Which of the heirs of immortality 
Is proud, and makes the breath of glory real!