George Gordon, Lord Byron · England · 1816
When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow-- It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me-- Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well:-- Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met-- In silence I grieve. That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?-- With silence and tears. I cannot talk of Love to thee, Though thou art young and free and fair! There is a spell thou dost not see, That bids a genuine love despair. And yet that spell invites each youth, For thee to sigh, or seem to sigh; Makes falsehood wear the garb of truth, And Truth itself appear a lie. If ever Doubt a place possest In woman's heart, 'twere wise in thine: Admit not Love into thy breast, Doubt others' love, nor trust in mine. Perchance 'tis feigned, perchance sincere, But false or true thou canst not tell; So much hast thou from all to fear, In that unconquerable spell. Of all the herd that throng around, Thy simpering or thy sighing train, Come tell me who to thee is bound By Love's or Plutus' heavier chain. In some 'tis Nature, some 'tis Art That bids them worship at thy shrine; But thou deserv'st a better heart, Than they or I can give for thine. For thee, and such as thee, behold, Is Fortune painted truly--blind! Who doomed thee to be bought or sold, Has proved too bounteous to be kind. Each day some tempter's crafty suit Would woo thee to a loveless bed: I see thee to the altar's foot A decorated victim led. Adieu, dear maid! I must not speak Whate'er my secret thoughts may be; Though thou art all that man can reck I dare not talk of Love to _thee_.
George Gordon, Lord Byron · England · 1816
When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow-- It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me-- Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well:-- Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met-- In silence I grieve. That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee?-- With silence and tears. I cannot talk of Love to thee, Though thou art young and free and fair! There is a spell thou dost not see, That bids a genuine love despair. And yet that spell invites each youth, For thee to sigh, or seem to sigh; Makes falsehood wear the garb of truth, And Truth itself appear a lie. If ever Doubt a place possest In woman's heart, 'twere wise in thine: Admit not Love into thy breast, Doubt others' love, nor trust in mine. Perchance 'tis feigned, perchance sincere, But false or true thou canst not tell; So much hast thou from all to fear, In that unconquerable spell. Of all the herd that throng around, Thy simpering or thy sighing train, Come tell me who to thee is bound By Love's or Plutus' heavier chain. In some 'tis Nature, some 'tis Art That bids them worship at thy shrine; But thou deserv'st a better heart, Than they or I can give for thine. For thee, and such as thee, behold, Is Fortune painted truly--blind! Who doomed thee to be bought or sold, Has proved too bounteous to be kind. Each day some tempter's crafty suit Would woo thee to a loveless bed: I see thee to the altar's foot A decorated victim led. Adieu, dear maid! I must not speak Whate'er my secret thoughts may be; Though thou art all that man can reck I dare not talk of Love to _thee_.
“When we two parted…”
Byron captures the devastating moment of separation from a beloved person—a moment so painful it can only be endured in silence. The poem opens with the memory of their parting, where both lovers were emotionally broken, and he notes how even the physical signs of her distress (her pale cheek, her cold kiss) seemed to predict the sorrow that would follow. As he moves through the poem, we learn that she has betrayed him—her vows were broken, her reputation damaged—and the world now knows her name in connection with scandal and shame.
“The dew of the morning…”
What makes this poem so powerful is Byron's conflicted emotional landscape. He is hurt and angry at her infidelity, yet he cannot stop loving her. He watches as other men pursue her, and though he recognizes that many of them are insincere or motivated by her beauty and wealth rather than genuine affection, he feels helpless to warn her or protect her. The poem becomes a meditation on the cruelty of beauty and desire—how her very attractiveness makes her a target for exploitation and false love.
“They name thee before me,…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
“In secret we met--…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
“I cannot talk of Love to thee,…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
“And yet that spell invites each youth,…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
“If ever Doubt a place possest…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
“Perchance 'tis feigned, perchance sincere,…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
“Of all the herd that throng around,…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
“In some 'tis Nature, some 'tis Art…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
“For thee, and such as thee, behold,…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
“Each day some tempter's crafty suit…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
“Adieu, dear maid! I must not speak…”
The closing stanzas reveal Byron's ultimate torment: he must remain silent about his love, even though he sees her being led toward a loveless marriage like a decorated victim going to sacrifice. His restraint and the pain of enforced silence give the poem its haunting quality. This is not just about romantic loss; it's about the impossibility of honest connection when desire and social circumstance have corrupted everything around them.
Why this poem matters
Byron wrote this poem around 1816, likely inspired by his affair with Mary Chaworth or another woman who betrayed his trust. The poem became one of his most popular works and helped establish his reputation as a poet of passionate, turbulent emotion. Its exploration of romantic disillusionment resonated deeply with Romantic-era audiences.