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. - Lord Byron

Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, 'I told you so,'
Utter'd by friends, those prophets of the past,
Who, 'stead of saying what you now should do,
Own they foresaw that you would fall at last,
And solace your slight lapse 'gainst 'bonos mores,'
With a long memorandum of old stories.

The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the music breathing from her face, 19
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,— And oh, that eye was in itself a soul!

Yet I did love thee to the last,
As ferverently as thou,
Who didst not change through all the past,
And canst not alter now.