George Gordon Noel Byron

Perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.

Perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.

The nympholepsy of some fond despair.

The nympholepsy of some fond despair.

Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms,
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine,
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Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms,
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine,
To hail his father; while his little form
Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain!
The childless cherubs well might envy thee
The pleasures of a parent.

She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife.

She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife.

For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge read more

For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail,
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.