April soft and cold: So late into the night

Look, I’m not the world’s biggest fan of the English Romantic poets. Wandering lonely as a cloud? No. Beauty is truth, truth beauty? Eh… Yeah, okay—I’m definitely down with “Ozymandias”, because Shelly absolutely nailed that testosterone-fueled über arrogance that we see in kings, pols and corporate execs. But for the most part…see above about “eh”.

And ordinarily I’d avoid Byron like leprosy, but I’m giving him a pass for “We’ll Go No More A-roving”. This one I find quite charming, which I cannot say for most of his oeuvre. Or his life.

Although, I grant you, being mad, bad and dangerous to know does have its attractions, albeit kind of at a distance. Like across the bar, with a lot of whiskies between the two of you.

Actually, this one might be about the end of that MBDtK phase of one’s life.

“So We’ll Go No More A-roving”

So, we'll go no more a roving

   So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

   And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

   And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

   And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving,

   And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a roving

   By the light of the moon.

Byron didn’t live long enough to hang up his roving spurs, which may make this one even more poignant. I’ll have another large whisky, please.