Caricamento in corso...

To M.S.G.

Whene’er I view those lips of thine,
   Their hue invites my fervent kiss;
Yet, I forego that bliss divine,
   Alas! it were——unhallow’d bliss.
Whene’er I dream of that pure breast,
   How could I dwell upon its snows!
Yet, is the daring wish represt,
   For that,——would banish its repose.
A glance from thy soul—searching eye
   Can raise with hope, depress with fear;
Yet, I conceal my love,——and why?
   I would not force a painful tear.
I ne’er have told my love, yet thou
   Hast seen my ardent flame too well;
And shall I plead my passion now,
   To make thy bosom’s heaven a hell?
No! for thou never canst be mine,
   United by the priest’s decree:
By any ties but those divine,
   Mine, my belov’d, thou ne’er shalt be.
Then let the secret fire consume,
   Let it consume, thou shalt not know:
With joy I court a certain doom,
   Rather than spread its guilty glow.
I will not ease my tortur’d heart,
   By driving dove—ey’d peace from thine;
Rather than such a sting impart,
   Each thought presumptuous I resign.
Yes! yield those lips, for which I’d brave
   More than I here shall dare to tell;
Thy innocence and mine to save,——
   I bid thee now a last farewell.
Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair
   And hope no more thy soft embrace;
Which to obtain, my soul would dare,
   All, all reproach, but thy disgrace.
At least from guilt shalt thou be free,
   No matron shall thy shame reprove;
Though cureless pangs may prey on me,
   No martyr shalt thou be to love.
Altre opere di Lord Byron ...