T. R. Smith, comp. Poetica Erotica: Rare and Curious Amatory Verse. 1921–22.
To Caroline
By Lord Byron (17881824)(From Hours of Idleness, 1807) YOU say you love, and yet your eye1. | |
No symptom of that love conveys, | |
You say you love, yet know not why, | |
Your cheek no sign of love betrays. | |
2. Ah! did that breast with ardour glow, | 5 |
With me alone it joy could know, | |
Or feel with me the listless woe, | |
Which racks my heart when far from thee. | |
3. Whene’er we meet my blushes rise, | |
And mantle through my purpled cheek, | 10 |
But yet no blush to mine replies, | |
Nor e’en your eyes your love bespeak. | |
4. Your voice alone declares your flame, | |
And though so sweet it breathes my name, | |
Our passions still are not the same; | 15 |
Alas! you cannot love like me. | |
5. For e’en your lip seems steep’d in snow, | |
And though so oft it meets my kiss, | |
It burns with no responsive glow, | |
Nor melts like mine in dewy bliss. | 20 |
6. Ah! what are words to love like mine, | |
Though utter’d by a voice like thine, | |
I still in murmurs must repine, | |
And think that love can ne’er be true, | |
7. Which meets me with no joyous sign, | 25 |
Without a sigh which bids adieu;— | |
How different is my love from thine, | |
How deep my grief when leaving you! | |
8. Your image fills my anxious breast, | |
Till day declines adown the West, | 30 |
And when at night I sink to rest, | |
In dreams your fancied form I view. | |
9. ’Tis then your breast, no longer cold, | |
With equal ardour seems to burn, | |
While close your arms around me fold, | 35 |
Your lips my kiss with warmth return. | |
10. Ah! would these joyous moments last; | |
Vain HOPE! the gay delusion’s past, | |
That voice!—ah! no, ’tis but the blast, | |
Which echoes through the neighbouring grove. | 40 |
11. But when awake, your lips I seek, | |
And clasp enraptured all your charms, | |
So chill’s the pressure of your cheek, | |
I fold a statue in my arms. | |
12. If thus, when to my heart embraced, | 45 |
No pleasure in your eyes is traced; | |
You may be prudent, fair, and chaste, | |
But ah! my girl, you do not love. | |