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John Keats - Sonnet To Byron
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Byron! how sweetly sad thy melody! 
Attuning still the soul to tenderness, 
As if soft Pity, with unusual stress, 
Had touch`d her plaintive lute, and thou, being by, 
Hadst caught the tones, nor suffer`d them to die. 
O`ershadowing sorrow doth not make thee less 
Delightful: thou thy griefs dost dress 
With a bright halo, shining beamily, 
As when a cloud the golden moon doth veil, 
Its sides are ting`d with a resplendent glow, 
Through the dark robe oft amber rays prevail, 
And like fair veins in sable marble flow; 
Still warble, dying swan! still tell the tale, 
The enchanting tale, the tale of pleasing woe.
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