"Stanzas" by George Gordon Lord Byron

STANZAS

         Could Love for ever
         Run like a river,
         And Time's endeavour
            Be tried in vain—
         No other pleasure
         With this could measure,
         And like a treasure
            We'd hug the chain.
         But since our sighing
         Ends not in dying,
         And, form 'd for flying,
            Love plumes his wing;
         Then for this reason
         Let's love a season
But let that season be only Spring.

         When lovers parted
         Feel broken-hearted,
         And, all hopes thwarted,
            Expect to die;
         A few years older,
         Ah! how much colder
         They might behold her
            For whom they sigh!
         When link 'd together,
         In every weather,
         They pluck Love's feather
            From out his wing—
         He'll stay for ever,
         But sadly shiver
Without his plumage, when past the Spring.

         Like chiefs of Faction,
         His life is action—
         A formal paction
            That curbs his reign,
         Obscures his glory,
         Despot no more, he
         Such territory
            Quits with disdain.
         Still, still advancing,
         With banners glancing,
         His power enhancing,
            He must move on—
         Repose but cloys him,
         Retreat destroys him,
Love brooks not a degraded throne.

         Wait not, fond lover!
         Till years are over,
         And then recover
            As from a dream.
         While each bewailing
         The other's failing,
         With wrath and railing,
            All hideous seem—
         While first decreasing,
         Yet not quite ceasing,
         Wait not till teasing
            All passion blight:
         If once diminish'd,
         Love's reign is finish'd—
Then part in friendship—and bid goodnight.

         So shall Affection
         To recollection
         The dear connexion
            Bring back with joy:
         You had not waited
         Till, tired or hated,
         Your passions sated
            Began to cloy.
         Your last embraces
         Leave no cold traces—
         The same fond faces
            As through the past:
         And eyes, the mirrors
         Of your sweet errors,
Reflect but rapture—not least though last.

         True, separations
         Ask more than patience;
         What desperations
            From such have risen!
         But yet remaining,
         What is't but chaining
         Hearts which, once waning,
            Beat 'gainst their prison?
         Time can but cloy love
         And use destroy love:
         The wingèd boy, Love,
            Is but for boys—
         You'll find it torture,
         Though sharper, shorter
To wean, and not wear out your joys.

By George Gordon Lord Byron, December 1, 1819.