Lord George Gordon Byron

Here you will find the Poem To M. S. G. of poet Lord George Gordon Byron

To M. S. G.

Whene'er I view those lips of thine, 
 Their hue invites my fervent kiss; 
Yet, I forego that bliss divine, 
 Alas! it were---unhallow'd bliss. 

Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, 
 How could I dwell upon its snows! 
Yet, is the daring wish represt, 
 For that,---would banish its repose. 

A glance from thy soul-searching eye 
 Can raise with hope, depress with fear; 
Yet, I conceal my love,---and why? 
 I would not force a painful tear. 

I ne'er have told my love, yet thou 
 Hast seen my ardent flame too well; 
And shall I plead my passion now, 
 To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? 

No! for thou never canst be mine, 
 United by the priest's decree: 
By any ties but those divine, 
 Mine, my belov'd, thou ne'er shalt be. 

Then let the secret fire consume, 
 Let it consume, thou shalt not know: 
With joy I court a certain doom, 
 Rather than spread its guilty glow. 

I will not ease my tortur'd heart, 
 By driving dove-ey'd peace from thine; 
Rather than such a sting impart, 
 Each thought presumptuous I resign. 

Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave 
 More than I here shall dare to tell; 
Thy innocence and mine to save,--- 
 I bid thee now a last farewell. 

Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair 
 And hope no more thy soft embrace; 
Which to obtain, my soul would dare, 
 All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. 

At least from guilt shalt thou be free, 
 No matron shall thy shame reprove; 
Though cureless pangs may prey on me, 
 No martyr shalt thou be to love.