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Byron, Lord

· Lord Byron: Thy Days Are Done (Poem) · Lord Byron: Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom (Poem) · Lord Byron: So we’ll go no more a roving (Poem) · Lord Byron: By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept (Poem) · Lord Byron: Remind me not, remind me not (Poem) · Lord Byron: It is the hour (Poem) · Lord Byron: Euthanasia (Poem) · Lord Byron: I Speak Not (Poem) · Lord Byron: Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer (Poem) · Lord Byron: My Soul Is Dark (Poem) · Lord Byron: There be none of Beauty’s daughters. Stanzas for Music · Lord Byron: John Keats Poem

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Lord Byron: Thy Days Are Done (Poem)

     

Thy Days Are Done

Thy days are done, thy fame begun;
Thy country’s strains record
The triumphs of her chosen Son,
The slaughter of his sword!
The deeds he did, the fields he won,
The freedom he restored!

Though thou art fall’n, while we are free
Thou shalt not taste of death!
The generous blood that flow’d from thee
Disdain’d to sink beneath:
Within our veins its currents be,
Thy spirit on our breath!

Thy name, our charging hosts along,
Shall be the battle-word!
Thy fall, the theme of choral song
From virgin voices pour’d!
To weep would do thy glory wrong:
Thou shalt not be deplored.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Thy Days Are Done
(Poem)

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Lord Byron: Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom (Poem)

    

Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom

Oh! snatched away in beauty’s bloom,
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb;
But on thy turf shall roses rear
Their leaves, the earliest of the year;
And the wild cypress wave in tender
gloom:

And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall sorrow lean her drooping head,
And feed deep thought with many a dream,
And lingering pause and lightly tread;
Fond wretch! as if her step disturbed the
dead!

Away! we know that tears are vain,
That death nor heeds nor hears distress:
Will this unteach us to complain?
Or make one mourner weep the less?
And thou – who tell’st me to forget,
Thy looks are wan, thine eyes are wet.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Oh! Snatched Away in Beauty’s Bloom
(Poem)

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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord


Lord Byron: So we’ll go no more a roving (Poem)

 

So we’ll go no more a roving

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.

For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And Love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
So we’ll go no more a roving
(Poem)

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Lord Byron: By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept (Poem)

 

By the Rivers of Babylon
We Sat Down and Wept

1
We sat down and wept by the waters
Of Babel, and thought of the day
When our foe, in the hue of his slaughters,
Made Salem’s high places his prey;
And ye, oh her desolate daughters!
Were scattered all weeping away.

2
While sadly we gazed on the river
Which rolled on in freedom below,
They demanded the song; but, oh never
That triumph the stranger shall know!
May this right hand be withered for ever,
Ere it string our high harp for the foe!

3
On the willow that harp is suspended,
Oh Salem! its sound should be free;
And the hour when thy glories were
ended
But left me that token of thee:
And ne’er shall its soft tones be blended
With the voice of the spoiler by me!

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
By the Rivers of Babylon We Sat Down and Wept
(Poem)

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Lord Byron: Remind me not, remind me not (Poem)

 

Remind me not, remind me not

Remind me not, remind me not,
Of those beloved, those vanish’d hours,
When all my soul was given to thee;
Hours that may never be forgot,
Till Time unnerves our vital powers,
And thou and I shall cease to be.

Can I forget—canst thou forget,
When playing with thy golden hair,
How quick thy fluttering heart did move?
Oh! by my soul, I see thee yet,
With eyes so languid, breast so fair,
And lips, though silent, breathing love.

When thus reclining on my breast,
Those eyes threw back a glance so sweet,
As half reproach’d yet rais’d desire,
And still we near and nearer prest,
And still our glowing lips would meet,
As if in kisses to expire.

And then those pensive eyes would close,
And bid their lids each other seek,
Veiling the azure orbs below;
While their long lashes’ darken’d gloss
Seem’d stealing o’er thy brilliant cheek,
Like raven’s plumage smooth’d on snow.

I dreamt last night our love return’d,
And, sooth to say, that very dream
Was sweeter in its phantasy,
Than if for other hearts I burn’d,
For eyes that ne’er like thine could beam
In Rapture’s wild reality.

Then tell me not, remind me not,
Of hours which, though for ever gone,
Can still a pleasing dream restore,
Till Thou and I shall be forgot,
And senseless, as the mouldering stone
Which tells that we shall be no more.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Remind me not, remind me not
(Poem)

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Lord Byron: It is the hour (Poem)

It is the hour

It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale’s high note is heard;
It is the hour — when lover’s vows
Seem sweet in every whisper’d word;
And gentle winds and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the Heaven that clear obscure
So softly dark, and darkly pure,
That follows the decline of day
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
It is the hour
(Poem)

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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord


Lord Byron: Euthanasia (Poem)

   

Euthanasia

When Time, or soon or late, shall bring
The dreamless sleep that lulls the dead,
Oblivion! may thy languid wing
Wave gently o’er my dying bed!

No band of friends or heirs be there,
To weep, or wish, the coming blow:
No maiden, with dishevelled hair,
To feel, or feign, decorous woe.

But silent let me sink to earth,
With no officious mourners near:
I would not mar one hour of mirth,
Nor startle friendship with a tear.

Yet Love, if Love in such an hour
Could nobly check its useless sighs,
Might then exert its latest power
In her who lives, and him who dies.

‘Twere sweet, my Psyche! to the last
Thy features still serene to see:
Forgetful of its struggles past,
E’en Pain itself should smile on thee.

But vain the wish?for Beauty still
Will shrink, as shrinks the ebbing breath;
And women’s tears, produced at will,
Deceive in life, unman in death.

Then lonely be my latest hour,
Without regret, without a groan;
For thousands Death hath ceas’d to lower,
And pain been transient or unknown.

`Ay, but to die, and go,’ alas!
Where all have gone, and all must go!
To be the nothing that I was
Ere born to life and living woe!

Count o’er the joys thine hours have seen,
Count o’er thy days from anguish free,
And know, whatever thou hast been,
‘Tis something better not to be.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Euthanasia
(Poem)

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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord


Lord Byron: I Speak Not (Poem)

 

I Speak Not

I speak not, I trace not, I breathe not thy name;
There is grief in the sound, there is guilt in the fame;
But the tear that now burns on my cheek may impart
The deep thoughts that dwell in that silence of heart.
Too brief for our passion, too long for our peace,
Were those hours – can their joy or their bitterness cease?
We repent, we abjure, we will break from our chain, –
We will part, we will fly to – unite it again!
Oh! thine be the gladness, and mine be the guilt!
Forgive me, adored one! – forsake if thou wilt;
But the heart which is thine shall expire undebased,
And man shall not break it – whatever thou may’st.
And stern to the haughty, but humble to thee,
This soul in its bitterest blackness shall be;
And our days seem as swift, and our moments more sweet,
With thee at my side, than with worlds at our feet.
One sigh of thy sorrow, one look of thy love,
Shall turn me or fix, shall reward or reprove.
And the heartless may wonder at all I resign –
Thy lips shall reply, not to them, but to mine.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
I Speak Not
(Poem)

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Lord Byron: Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer (Poem)

 

Farewell!
If Ever Fondest Prayer

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other’s weal availed on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky.
‘Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh:
Oh! more than tears of blood can tell,
When wrung from guilt’s expiring eye,
Are in that word – Farewell! – Farewell!

These lips are mute, these eyes are dry;
But in my breast and in my brain,
Awake the pangs that pass not by,
The thought that ne’er shall sleep again.
My soul nor deigns nor dares complain,
Though grief and passion there rebel;
I only know we loved in vain –
I only feel – Farewell! – Farewell!

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer
(Poem)

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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord


Lord Byron: My Soul Is Dark (Poem)

 

My Soul Is Dark

My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
Its melting murmurs o’er mine ear.
If in this heart a hope be dear,
That sound shall charm it forth again:
If in these eyes there lurk a tear,
‘Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain.

But bid the strain be wild and deep,
Nor let thy notes of joy be first:
I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
Or else this heavy heart will burst;
For it hath been by sorrow nursed,
And ached in sleepless silence, long;
And now ’tis doomed to know the worst,
And break at once – or yield to song.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
My Soul Is Dark
(Poem)

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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord


Lord Byron: There be none of Beauty’s daughters. Stanzas for Music

 

There be none of Beauty’s daughters
Stanzas for Music

There be none of Beauty’s daughters
With a magic like Thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charméd ocean’s pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull’d winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o’er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant’s asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer’s ocean.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
There be none of Beauty’s daughters
Stanzas for Music

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More in: # Music Archive, Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord


Lord Byron: John Keats Poem

John Keats Poem

Who killed John Keats?
‘I,’ says the Quarterly,
So savage and Tartarly;
”Twas one of my feats.’

Who shot the arrow?
‘The poet-priest Milman
(So ready to kill man),
Or Southey or Barrow.

George Gordon Byron
(1788 – 1824)
John Keats Poem

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More in: Archive A-B, Archive A-B, Byron, Lord, Keats, John


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