George Gordon Noel, Lord Byron
Byron and Shelley and Keats
Were a trio of Lyrical treats.
The forehead of Shelley was cluttered with curls,
And Keats never was a descendant of earls,
And Byron walked out with a number of girls,
But it didn’t impair the poetical feats
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley,
Of Byron and Shelley and Keats.
And there were those to make them songWho for their touch had died.Too frail to cup a heart within,Too soft to hold the free-How long these lovely hands have beenA bitterness to me!
But Sorrow clings to my apron-strings,I have so much to say.
I held me tall, with my head flung up,But I dared not look on the new moon’s cup.I dared not look on the sweet young rain,And between my ribs was a gleaming pain.The next time I died, they laid me deep.They spoke worn words to hallow my sleep.They tossed me petals, they wreathed me fern,They…
And he vows his passion isInfinite, undying –Lady, make a note of this:One of you is lying.
If I bowled it down the street,Who’s to say it mattered?If there’s one that rode awayWhat would I be missing?Lips that taste of tears, they say,Are the best for kissing.Eyes that watch the morning starSeem a little brighter;Arms held out to darkness areUsually whiter.Shall I bar the strolling guest,Bind my brow with willow,When, they say,…
