By Lord Byron (George Gordon)
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.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
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.
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The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
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She walks in beauty, like the night
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In the town of frijoles,
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In the town of frijoles,
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We gathered in a field southwest of town,
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dry in August, two ruts of soft dust
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By noon we could discern their massive coils
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I like the lady horses best,
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We used to say,
That’s my heart right there.
As if to say,
Don’t mess with her right there.
As if, don’t even play,
That’s a part of me right there.
In other words, okay okay,
That’s the start of me right there.
As if, come that day,