Poem by George Gordon Byron

* * *

    1

Thou art not false, but thou art fickle,
   To those thyself so fondly sought;
The tears that thou hast forced to trickle
   Are doubly bitter from that thought:
’Tis this which breaks the heart thou grievest
   Too well thou lov’st—too soon thou leavest.

    2

The wholly false the heart despises,
   And spurns deceiver and deceit;
But she who not a thought disguises,
   Whose love is as sincere as sweet,
When she can change who loved so truly,
   It feels what mine has felt so newly.

    3

To dream of joy and wake to sorrow
   Is doom’d to all who love or live;
And if, when conscious on the morrow,
   We scarce our fancy can forgive,
That cheated us in slumber only,
   To leave the waking soul more lonely,

    4

What must they feel whom no false vision,
   But truest, tenderest passion warm’d?
Sincere, but swift in sad transition;
   As if a dream alone had charm’d?
Ah! sure such grief is fancy’s scheming,
   And all thy change can be but dreaming! 

1. Epitaph
2. Churchill’s Grave
3. On a Change of Masters at a Great Public School
4. Lines Addressed to a Young Lady
5. To the Earl of Clare

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