You have ask'd for a verse:--the request <br />In a rhymer 'twere strange to deny; <br />But my Hippocrene was but my breast, <br />And my feelings (its fountain) are dry. <br /> <br />Were I now as I was, I had sung <br />What Lawrence has painted so well; <br />But the strain would expire on my tongue, <br />And the theme is too soft for my shell. <br /> <br />I am ashes where once I was fire, <br />And the bard in my bosom is dead; <br />What I loved I now merely admire, <br />And my heart is as grey as my head. <br /> <br />My life is not dated by years-- <br />There are moments which act as plough; <br />And there is not a furrow appears <br />But is deep in my soul as my brow. <br /> <br />Let the young and the brilliant aspire <br />To sing what I gaze on in vain; <br />For sorrow has torn from my lyre <br />The string which was worthy the strain.<br /><br />George Gordon Byron<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-the-countess-of-blessington/