A Poem For Monday

Feb 18 2013 @ 7:14pm

George_Gordon_Byron,_6th_Baron_Byron_by_Richard_Westall_(2)

From Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage by Lord Byron (1788-1824):

He, who grown agéd in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,
So that no wonder waits him—nor below
Can Love or Sorrow, Fame, Ambition, Strife,
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife
Of silent, sharp endurance—he can tell
Why Thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife
With airy images, and shapes which dwell
Still unimpaired, though old, in the Soul’s haunted cell.

’Tis to create, and in creating live
A being more intense, that we endow
With form our fancy, gaining as we give
The life we image, even as I do know—
What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou,
Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse earth,
Invisible but gazing, as I glow
Mixed with thy spirit, blended with thy birth,
And feeling still with thee in my crushed feelings’ dearth.

(Portrait of Lord Byron, from the National Portrait Gallery in London, via Wikimedia Commons)