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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=116812" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To Ianthe</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Not in those climes where I have late been straying,<br> Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,<br> Not in those visions to the heart displaying<br> Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,<br> Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed:<br> Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek<br> To paint those charms which varied as they beamed -<br> To such as see thee not my words were weak;<br>To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art,<br> Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,<br> As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,<br> Love’s image upon earth without his wing,<br> And guileless beyond Hope’s imagining!<br> And surely she who now so fondly rears<br> Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,<br> Beholds the rainbow of her future years,<br>Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Young Peri of the West! - ’tis well for me<br> My years already doubly number thine;<br> My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,<br> And safely view thy ripening beauties shine:<br> Happy, I ne’er shall see them in decline;<br> Happier, that while all younger hearts shall bleed<br> Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign<br> To those whose admiration shall succeed,<br>But mixed with pangs to Love’s even loveliest hours decreed.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle’s,<br> Now brightly bold or beautifully shy,<br> Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells,<br> Glance o’er this page, nor to my verse deny<br> That smile for which my breast might vainly sigh,<br> Could I to thee be ever more than friend:<br> This much, dear maid, accord; nor question why<br> To one so young my strain I would commend,<br>But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily blend.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> Such is thy name with this my verse entwined;<br> And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast<br> On Harold’s page, Ianthe’s here enshrined<br> Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last:<br> My days once numbered, should this homage past<br> Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre<br> Of him who hailed thee, loveliest as thou wast,<br> Such is the most my memory may desire;<br>Though more than Hope can claim, could Friendship less require?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Byron">Byron</a> from <i>Childe Harold's Pilgrimage</i><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=116812" data-title="To Ianthe de Byron" data-description="Not in those climes where I have late been straying,/ Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,/ Not in those visions to the heart displaying/ Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,/ Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed..."></div>
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