…from the quills of dead white poets
Lord Byron (1788 – 1824)
So, we will go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.