George Gordon Noel Byron

The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
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The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The Moon, their Mistress, had expired before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; darkness had no need
Of aid from them--she was the Universe.

Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried?

Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried?

And gazed around them to the left and right
With the prophetic eye of appetite.

And gazed around them to the left and right
With the prophetic eye of appetite.

Some are soon bagg'd but some reject three dozen.
'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals
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Some are soon bagg'd but some reject three dozen.
'Tis fine to see them scattering refusals
And wild dismay, o'er every angry cousin
(Friends of the party) who begin accusals,
Such as--"Unless Miss (Blank) meant to have chosen
Poor Frederick, why did she accord perusals
To his billets? Why waltz with him? Why, I pray,
Look yes least night, and yet say No to-day?"

With eyes that look'd into the very soul--
. . . .
Bright--and as black and burning read more

With eyes that look'd into the very soul--
. . . .
Bright--and as black and burning as coal.