(Poem #62) So We'll Go No More a-Roving
So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still 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.
"Lord Byron is only great as a poet; as soon as he reflects, he is a child." - Goethe. I agree completely. Byron seems to be the distillation of all the qualities which I dislike in the Romantic poets. Having said that, I must add that this beautiful lyric is one of my favourite vignettes. Again, it's a poem to which not much can be added by way of commentary (funny, isn't it, how such poems tend to go hand-in-hand with days on which I don't have time to write comments?) Actually, I started writing some stuff, but I gave up because it wasn't going too well, and also, to be frank, I don't like Byron enough to be able to write about him. So I'll leave you with just the first line of my (unfortunately) stillborn essay: Written around the age of 30, after a tempestuous and highly controversial youth, this shows Byron in a more pensive, melancholy mood, far removed from his usual (somewhat wanton) sensuality. That, I'm afraid, is all I wrote. Oh well, that's the way it crumbles, cookiewise. thomas.