I Speak Not, I Trace Not, I Breathe Not Thy Name Poem by George Gordon Byron
I Speak Not, I Trace Not, I Breathe Not Thy Name
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.
May, 1814.
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. lovely! ! i like it! !
A sing-song composition! Can be set to music! How masterfully he uses words! A great poet!
This is fantastic poem, it says so many things about the love, life and the caring nature of a person, I liked the essence and the flow of this poem, thanks for sharing.
A passionate love poem full of melancholia and a guilty conscience.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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9/27/2023 12:45:02 PM # 1.0.0.1115
The worst Woman that ever existed would have made a Man of very passable reputation. They are all better than us—and their faults, such as they are, must originate with ourselves...- Lord Byron. I wonder if he truly believed that or if it was part of his romantic mystique that he devised to be a popular poet. He often appeared in letters and newspapers and gossip from that age as the very prototype for his gloomy Byronic heroes in his poems, always appearing in the shadows, suffering from his tormented soul, a confused, melancholy, and blighted man who needed a woman's love her to resurrect his goodness. Uh-huh.