by George Gordon,
Lord Byron
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.