Читать книгу The Works of Lord Byron, Vol. 7. Poetry - George Gordon Byron - Страница 16

There is no more for me to hope,

There is no more for thee to fear;

And, if I give my Sorrow scope,

That Sorrow thou shalt never hear.

Why did I hold thy love so dear?

Why shed for such a heart one tear?

Let deep and dreary silence be

My only memory of thee!

When all are fled who flatter now,

Save thoughts which will not flatter then;

And thou recall'st the broken vow

To him who must not love again —

Each hour of now forgotten years

Thou, then, shalt number with thy tears;

And every drop of grief shall be

A vain remembrancer of me!