The Super-Moon - 23/06/2013

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR
by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)
'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,Since others it has ceased to move:Yet though I cannot be beloved,Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;The flowers and fruits of love are gone;The worm, the canker, and the griefAre mine alone!
The fire that on my bosom preysIs lone as some volcanic isle;No torch is kindled at its blaze—A funeral pile!
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,The exalted portion of the painAnd power of love I cannot share,But wear the chain.
But ‘tis not thus — and ‘tis not here —Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor now,Where Glory decks the hero’s bierOr binds his brow.
The sword, the banner and the field,Glory and Greece, around me see!The Spartan, borne upon his shield,Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece— she is awake!)Awake, my Spirit! Think through whomThy life-blood tracks its parent lake,And then strike home.
Tread those reviving passions down,Unworthy Manhood!— unto theeIndifferent should the smile or frownOf Beauty be.
If thou regret’st thy youth, why live?The land of honourable deathIs here:— up to the field, and giveAway thy breath!
Seek out— less often sought than found—A Soldier’s Grave, for thee the best;Then look around, and choose thy Ground,And take thy Rest.

The Super-Moon - 23/06/2013

ON THIS DAY I COMPLETE MY THIRTY-SIXTH YEAR

by: George Gordon (Lord) Byron (1788-1824)

'Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
Since others it has ceased to move:
Yet though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!

My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze—
A funeral pile!

The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love I cannot share,
But wear the chain.

But ‘tis not thus — and ‘tis not here
Such thoughts would shake my soul, nor now,
Where Glory decks the hero’s bier
Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.

Awake! (not Greece— she is awake!)
Awake, my Spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home.

Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy Manhood!— unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of Beauty be.

If thou regret’st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here:— up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!

Seek out— less often sought than found—
A Soldier’s Grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy Ground,
And take thy Rest.