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So we'll go no more a roving
a poem by 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 hearth must pause to breathe, 
And love itself have rest.

Though the night was made for loving, 
And the days return too soon, 
Yet we'll go no more a roving 
By the light of the moon.

 

 

So we'll go no more a roving
a poem by Lord Byron

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