Whene'er I view those lips of thine, <br /> Their hue invites my fervent kiss; <br />Yet, I forego that bliss divine, <br /> Alas! it were---unhallow'd bliss. <br /> <br />Whene'er I dream of that pure breast, <br /> How could I dwell upon its snows! <br />Yet, is the daring wish represt, <br /> For that,---would banish its repose. <br /> <br />A glance from thy soul-searching eye <br /> Can raise with hope, depress with fear; <br />Yet, I conceal my love,---and why? <br /> I would not force a painful tear. <br /> <br />I ne'er have told my love, yet thou <br /> Hast seen my ardent flame too well; <br />And shall I plead my passion now, <br /> To make thy bosom's heaven a hell? <br /> <br />No! for thou never canst be mine, <br /> United by the priest's decree: <br />By any ties but those divine, <br /> Mine, my belov'd, thou ne'er shalt be. <br /> <br />Then let the secret fire consume, <br /> Let it consume, thou shalt not know: <br />With joy I court a certain doom, <br /> Rather than spread its guilty glow. <br /> <br />I will not ease my tortur'd heart, <br /> By driving dove-ey'd peace from thine; <br />Rather than such a sting impart, <br /> Each thought presumptuous I resign. <br /> <br />Yes! yield those lips, for which I'd brave <br /> More than I here shall dare to tell; <br />Thy innocence and mine to save,--- <br /> I bid thee now a last farewell. <br /> <br />Yes! yield that breast, to seek despair <br /> And hope no more thy soft embrace; <br />Which to obtain, my soul would dare, <br /> All, all reproach, but thy disgrace. <br /> <br />At least from guilt shalt thou be free, <br /> No matron shall thy shame reprove; <br />Though cureless pangs may prey on me, <br /> No martyr shalt thou be to love.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-m-s-g/
