Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous: <br />I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you: <br />But woman is made to command and deceive us — <br />I look 'd in your face, and I almost forgave you. <br /> <br />I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you, <br />Yet thought that a day's separation was long; <br />When we met, I determined again to suspect you <br />Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong. <br /> <br />I swore, in a transport of young indignation, <br />With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you: <br />I saw you - my anger became admiration; <br />And now, all my wish, all my hope's to regain you. <br /> <br />With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention! <br />Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you; <br />At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension, <br />Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you! <br /> <br />January 16, 1807.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-anne-2/
