a sadness sweeter than her smile

          LXXII

And if she met him, though she smiled no more,
     She look'd a sadness sweeter than her smile,
As if her heart had deeper thoughts in store
     She must not own, but cherish'd more the while
For that compression in its burning core;
     Even innocence itself has many a wile,
And will not dare to trust itself with truth,
And love is taught hypocrisy from youth.

          LXXIV

Then there were sighs, the deeper for suppression,
     And stolen glances, sweeter for the theft,
And burning blushes, though for no transgression,
     Tremblings when met, and restlessness when left;
All these are little preludes to possession,
     Of which young passion cannot be bereft,
And merely tend to show how greatly love is
Embarrass'd at first starting with a novice.

          CLXXVIII

A hint, in tender cases, is enough;
     Silence is best: besides there is a tact--
(That modern phrase appears to me sad stuff,
     But it will serve to keep my verse compact)--
Which keeps, when push'd by questions rather rough,
     A lady always distant from the fact:
The charming creatures lie with such a grace,
There's nothing so becoming to the face.

          CXCII

'They tell me 'tis decided; you depart:
     'Tis wise--'tis well, but not the less a pain;
I have no further claim on your young heart,
     Mine is the victim, and would be again:
To love too much has been the only art
     I used;--I write in haste, and if a stain
Be on this sheet, 'tis not what it appears;
My eyeballs burn and throb, but have no tears.

          CXCIII

'I loved, I love you, for this love have lost
     State, station, heaven, mankind's, my own esteem,
And yet cannot regret what it hath cost,
     So dear is still the memory of that dream;
Yet, if I name my guilt, 'tis not to boast,
     None can deem harshlier of me than I deem:
I trace this scrawl because I cannot rest--
I've nothing to reproach or to request.

          CXCV

'You will proceed in pleasure, and in pride,
     Beloved and loving many; all is o'er
For me on earth, except some years to hide
     My shame and sorrow deep in my heart's core:
These I could bear, but cannot cast aside
     The passion which still rages as before,--
And so farewell--forgive me, love me--No,
The word is idle now--but let it go.

          CLXXXVI

A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love,
     And beauty, all concentrating like rays
Into one focus, kindled from above;
     Such kisses as belong to early days,
Where heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move,
     And the blood's lava, and the pulse a blaze,
Each kiss a heart-quake,--for a kiss's strength,
I think it must be reckon'd by its length.

          CXCVI

An infant when it gazes on a light,
     A child the moment when it drains the breast,
A devotee when soars the Host in sight,
     An Arab with a stranger for a guest,
A sailor when the prize has struck in flight,
     A miser filling his most hoarded chest,
Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping
As they who watch o'er what they love while sleeping.

[Lord Byron {George Gordon Byron, 6th Baron Byron FRS} {1788-1824}, from 'Don Juan' in Byron {Everyman's Library Pocket Poets}]