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    Lord George Gordon Byron - To A Lady


    by poetictouch

    To A Lady Who Presented To The Author A Lock Of Hair Braided With His Own, And Appointed A Night In December To Meet Him In The Garden
    by Lord George Gordon Byron (1788-1824)

    These locks, which fondly thus entwine,
    In firmer chains our hearts confine,
    Than all th' unmeaning protestations
    Which swell with nonsense, love orations.
    Our love is fix'd, I think we've prov'd it;
    Nor time, nor place, nor art have mov'd it;
    Then wherefore should we sigh and whine,
    With groundless jealousy repine;
    With silly whims, and fancies frantic,
    Merely to make our love romantic?
    Why should you weep, like Lydia Languish,
    And fret with self-created anguish?
    Or doom the lover you have chosen,
    On winter nights to sigh half frozen;
    In leafless shades, to sue for pardon,
    Only because the scene's a garden?
    For gardens seem, by one consent,
    (Since Shakespeare set the precedent;
    Since Juliet first declar'd her passion)
    To form the place of assignation.
    Oh! would some modern muse inspire,
    And seat her by a sea-coal fire;
    Or had the bard at Christmas written,
    And laid the scene of love in Britain;
    He surely, in commiseration,
    Had chang'd the place of declaration.
    In Italy, I've no objection,
    Warm nights are proper for reflection;
    But here our climate is so rigid,
    That love itself, is rather frigid:
    Think on our chilly situation,
    And curb this rage for imitation.
    Then let us meet, as oft we've done,
    Beneath the influence of the sun;
    Or, if at midnight I must meet you,
    Within your mansion let me greet you:
    There, we can love for hours together,
    Much better, in such snowy weather,
    Than plac'd in all th' Arcadian groves,
    That ever witness'd rural loves;
    Then, if my passion fail to please,
    Next night I'll be content to freeze;
    No more I'll give a loose to laughter,
    But curse my fate, for ever after.