George Gordon, Lord Byron's Unlikely Lament

I longed for a love pure like driven snow, untouched and vestal in the spring years to come; the years came, and were gone until my woe over love now lost filled my present autumn. Virgin, and never a princess have I met, or rustic maid with whom to spend a night; I dwelled in solitude with great regret, for Eros and young love were not my right. Still young and fresh, and naïve and innocent, stained by concupiscence ever the least, I cast'd aside my youth's indecent bent; and lived my life as if I were a priest. Now old and bootless, without lust's searing fire, I've never pierced the tunnel of desire.