'Tis time the heart should be unmoved, 
                        Since others it ceased to move: 
                    Yet, though I cannot be beloved, 
                        Still let me love!

                    My days are in the yellow leaf; 
                        The flowers and fruits of love are gone; 
                    The worm, the canker, and the grief 
                        Are mine alone!

                    The fire that on my bosom preys 
                        Is lone as some volcanic isle; 
                    No torch is kindled at its blaze-- 
                        A funeral pile.

                    The hope, the fear, the jealous care, 
                        The exalted portion of the pain 
                    And power of love, I cannot share, 
                        But wear the chain.

                    But 'tis not thus--and 'tis not here-- 
                        Such thoughts should shake my soul nor now, 
                    Where glory decks the hero's bier, 
                        Or binds his brow.

                    --

                    Tread those reviving passions down, 
                        Unworthy manhood!--unto thee 
                    Indifferent should the smile or frown 
                        Of beauty be.

                    If you regrett'st your youth, why live? 
                        The land of honourable death 
                    Is here:--up to the field, and give 
                        Away your breath!

                    Seek out--less often sought than found-- 
                        A soldier's grave, for you the best; 
                    Then look around, and choose your ground, 
                        And take your rest. 

Lord Byron, 6th Baron Byron (22 January 1788 – 19 April 1824)