George Gordon Noel Byron

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No,"
And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing
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Such is your cold coquette, who can't say "No,"
And won't say "Yes," and keeps you on and off-ing
On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow,
Then sees your heart wreck'd, with an inward scoffing.

It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
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It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
Which then seems as if the whole earth is bounded,
Circling all nature, hush'd, and dim, and still,
With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill
Upon the other, and the rosy sky
With one star sparkling through it like an eye.

Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were.

Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were.

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth.

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,
And mischief-making monkey from his birth.