Lord Byron on Poetry about love
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βWho loves, ravesβ'tis youth's frenzyβbut the cure Is bitterer still.β
βThe cold in clime are cold in blood, Their love can scarce deserve the name.β
βAnd to his eye There was but one beloved face on earth, And that was shining on him.β
βIn her first passion woman loves her lover; In all the others, all she loves is love.β
βWhy did she love him? Curious fool!βbe stillβ Is human love the growth of human will?β
βShe knew she was by him beloved,βshe knew For quickly comes such knowledge, that his heart Was darken'd with her shadow.β
βOh Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy band, Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, These hours, and only these, redeem Life's years of ill.β
βO! that the Desert were my dwelling place, With one fair Spirit for my minister, That I might all forget the human race, And, hating no one, love but only her!β
βMan's love is of man's life a thing apart, 'Tis woman's whole existence: man may range The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart, Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart, And few there are whom these cannot estrange; Men have all these resources, we but one, To love again, and be again undone.β