Sonnet To Byron – P. B. Shelley
(I am afraid these verses will not please you, but)
If I esteemed you less, Envy would kill
Pleasure, and leave to Wonder and Despair
The Ministration of the thoughts that fill
The mind which, like a warm whose life may share
A portion of the unapproachable,
Marks your creations rise as fast and fair
As perfect worlds at the Creator’s will.
But such is my regard that nor your power
To soar above the heights where others (climb),
Nor fame, that shadow of the unborn hour
Cast from the envious future on the time,
Move one regret for his unhonoured name
Who dares these words: — the worm beneath the sod
May lift itself in homage of the God.
Sonnet To Byron – John Keats
Byron! How sweetly sad thy melody!
Attuning still the soul to tenderness,
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress,
Had touch’d her plaintive lute, and thou, being by,
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer’d them to die.
O’er shadowing sorrow doth not make thee loss
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress
With a bright halo, shining beamily,
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil,
Its sides are ting’d with a resplendent glow,
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail,
And like fair veins in sable marble flow;
Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale,
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
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