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George Gordon Byron - Fare Thee Well
Work rating: Medium

Fare thee well! and if for ever,
   Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
   `Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.
 
Would that breast were bared before thee
   Where thy head so oft hath lain.
While that placid sleep came o`er thee
   Which thou ne`er canst know again;
 
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
   Every inmost thought could show!
Then thou wouldst at last discover
   `Twas not well to spurn it so.
 
Though the world for this commend thee--
   Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,    
   Founded on another`s woe:
 
Though my many faults defaced me,
   Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
   To inflict a cureless wound?
 
Yet, oh yet, thyself deceive not;
   Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
   Hearts can thus be torn away:
 
Still thine own its life retaineth,
   Still must mine, though bleeding, beat;
And the undying thought which paineth
   Is - that we no more may meet.
 
These are words of deeper sorrow
   Than the wail above the dead;
Both shall live, but every morrow
   Wake us from a widow`d bed.
 
And when thou wouldst solace gather,
   When our child`s first accents flow,
Wilt thou teach her to say `Father!` 
   Though his care she must forego?
 
When her little hands shall press thee,
   When her lip to thine is press`d
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee,
   Think of him thy love had bless`d! 
 
Should her lineaments resemble
   Those thou never more may`st see,
Then thy heart will softly tremble
   With a pulse yet true to me.
 
All my faults perchance thou knowest,
   All my madness none can know;
All my hopes where`er thou goest,
   Wither, yet with thee they go.
 
Every feeling hath been shaken;
   Pride, which not a world could bow,
Bows to thee--by thee forsaken,
   Even my soul forsakes me now:
 
But `tis done--all words are idle­
   Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle    
   Force their way without the will.
 
Fare thee well! thus disunited,
   Torn from every nearer tie
Sear `d in heart, and lone, and blighted,
   More than this I scarce can die.
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