So We'll Go No More a Roving [on Lord Byron's birthday, Jan. 22nd]

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 wears out 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.

Brevity and simplicity contribute to this poem's power. It seems also somehow to summarize the Byronic state: Wanderlust and Weltschmertz in equal measures. The poem makes me think of this tuneful ballad. DL 

In Plymouth town there lived a maid
Bless you fair maidens
In Plymouth town there lived a maid
Mind what I say
In Plymouth town there lived a maid
And she was mistress of her trade
I’ll go no more a-rovin’ with you fair maid

A-rovin’, a-rovin’, since rovin’s been my ruin
I’ll go no more a-rovin’ with you fair maid.

Comments

[Sally Ashton]

"The unreached paradise of our despair..." Childe Harold, which I read thanks to you.

[Kyril Alexander Calsoyas]

Happy Birthday George Gordon, sweet light.
A sequel poem to inspire your spirit.

We'll Rove and Rove

Rest has healed the weary scars,
Love rekindled, wings unfurl,
But the moonlit magic spars
With the shadows of the world.

We'll chase the night's enchanting trance,
Laughter echoing, hearts aglow,
Yet dawn will steal the moonlit dance,
And leave us yearning, soft and low.

Still, we'll rove, forever bound,
By whispers starlight cannot quell,
Though echoes of the past resound,
The moonlit heart remembers well.