| William Stanley Braithwaite, ed. The Book of Georgian Verse. 1909. | | | | Could Love For Ever | | By Lord Byron (1788–1824) |
| | | COULD Love for ever | |
| Run like a river, | |
| And Time’s endeavour | |
| Be tried in vain— | |
| No other pleasure | 5 |
| With this could measure: | |
| And like a treasure | |
| We’d hug the chain. | |
| But since our sighing | |
| Ends not in dying, | 10 |
| 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. | 15 |
| |
| When lovers parted | |
| Feel broken-hearted, | |
| And, all hopes thwarted, | |
| Expect to die; | |
| A few years older, | 20 |
| Ah! how much colder | |
| They might behold her | |
| For whom they sigh! | |
| When link’d together, | |
| In every weather, | 25 |
| They pluck Love’s feather | |
| From out his wing— | |
| He’ll stay for ever, | |
| But sadly shiver | |
| Without his plumage, when past the Spring. | 30 |
| |
| Like Chiefs of Faction, | |
| His life is action— | |
| A formal paction | |
| That curbs his reign, | |
| Obscures his glory, | 35 |
| Despot no more, he | |
| Such territory | |
| Quits with disdain. | |
| Still, still advancing, | |
| With banners glancing, | 40 |
| His power enhancing, | |
| He must move on— | |
| Repose but cloys him, | |
| Retreat destroys him, | |
| Love brooks not a degraded throne. | 45 |
| |
| Wait not, fond lover! | |
| Till years are over, | |
| And then recover, | |
| As from a dream. | |
| While each bewailing | 50 |
| The other’s failing, | |
| With wrath and railing, | |
| All hideous seem— | |
| While first decreasing, | |
| Yet not quite ceasing, | 55 |
| Wait not till teasing | |
| All passion blight: | |
| If once diminish’d | |
| Love reign is finish’d— | |
| Then part in friendship,—and bid good-night. | 60 |
| |
| So shall Affection | |
| To recollection | |
| The dear connection | |
| Bring back with joy: | |
| You had not waited | 65 |
| Till, tired or hated, | |
| Your passions sated | |
| Began to coy. | |
| Your last embraces | |
| Leave no cold traces— | 70 |
| The same fond faces— | |
| As through the past; | |
| And eyes, the mirrors | |
| Of your sweet errors, | |
| Reflect but rapture—not least though last. | 75 |
| |
| True, separations | |
| Ask more than patience; | |
| What desperations | |
| From such have risen! | |
| But yet remaining, | 80 |
| What is’t but chaining | |
| Hearts which, once waning, | |
| Beat ’gainst their prison? | |
| Time can but cloy love, | |
| And use destroy love: | 85 |
| The wingèd boy, Love, | |
| Is but for boys— | |
| You’ll find it torture | |
| Though sharper, shorter, | |
| To wean, and not wear out your joys. | 90 | | | |
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