This is a very nice little collection of poetry that includes an excellent overview of George Gordon Byron’s life in the introduction. He certainly led an interesting life; he was ruled by his passions and died young, at age 36. His poetry reflects love in many different stages and forms, and while few take love to the limits Byron did, his work is easy to identify with and this is an enjoyable read.

Quotes:
On adultery, from Remember Him Whom Passion's Power:
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“Oh God! that we had met in time,
Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free;
When thou hadst loved without a crime,
And I been less unworthy thee!”

On breaking up, When We Two Parted:
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“When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sunk chill on my brow -
It felt like the warning
of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame;
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me -
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well: -
Long, long shall I rue thee,
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met -
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? -
With silence and tears.”

On breaking up (divorce) from Fare Thee Well:
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“All my faults perchance thou knowest,
All my madness none can know;
All my hopes, where'er thou goest,
Wither, yet with thee they go.

Every feeling hath been shaken;
Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee - by thee forsaken,
Even my soul forsakes me know;
...
Fare thee well! - thus disunited,
Torn from every nearer tie,
Sear'd in heart, and lone, and blighted,
More than this I scarce can die.”

On desire, from Imitated from Callus:
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“Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire,
A million scarce would quench desire:
Still would I steep my lips in bliss,
And dwell an age on every kiss;
Nor then my soul should sated be,
Still would I kiss and cling to thee:
Nought should my kiss from thine dissever;
Still would we kiss, and kiss for ever...”

On love, from To a Beautiful Quaker:
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“Sweet girl! though only once we met,
That meeting I shall ne'er forget;
And though we ne'er may meet again,
Remembrance will thy form retain.
I would not say, "I love," but still
My senses struggle with my will:
In vain, to drive thee from my breast...”

On love, from Stanzas to Augusta:
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“In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.”

On love lost, from To a Lady:
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“But now I seek for other joys:
To think would drive my soul to madness;
In thoughtless throngs and empty noise,
I conquer half my bosom's sadness.

Yet even in these a thought will steal,
In spite of every vain endeavor;
And fiends might pity what I feel, -
To know that thou art lost for ever.”

On love lost, from Remind Me Not, Remind Me Not:
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“Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish'd hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.

Can I forget - canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love...”

On love lost, from Stanzas to a Lady on Leaving England:
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“As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev'n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.
...
'T would soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep;
For him that wanders o'er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.”

On love unrequited, from To -:
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“But once I dared to lift my eyes,
To lift my eyes to thee;
And, since that day, beneath the skies,
No other sight they see.

In vain sleep shuts them in the night,
The night grows day to me,
Presenting idly to my sight
What still a dream must be.

A fatal dream - for many a bar
Divides thy fate from mine;
And still my passions wake and war,
But peace be still with thine.”

On old age, from So We'll Go No More A-Roving:
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“So we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving,
And the moon be still as bright.” ( )