George Gordon Noel Byron

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast;
Is that read more

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast;
Is that portentous phrase, "I told you so."

Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its read more

Sleep hath its own world,
A boundary between the things misnamed
Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world,
And a wide realm of wild reality,
And dreams in their development have breath,
And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy.

Yet even her tyranny had such a grace,
The women pardoned all, except her face.

Yet even her tyranny had such a grace,
The women pardoned all, except her face.

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs.

Not much he kens, I ween, of woman's breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs.

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past--
For years fleet away with the wings of the read more

When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past--
For years fleet away with the wings of the dove--
The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.