Direktlänk till inlägg 24 januari 2014
'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)
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