So we’ll go no more a roving,
So late into the night.
Though the heart be still as loving
And the moon be just as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheathe,
And the soul wears out the breast.
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
I’m learning this poem by Lord Byron and this is as far as I got. I thought posting it here (from memory!) might help to bed it down. Is it right?
Tomorrow I will learn Stanza 3 hopefully.