In the rapidly fading twilight that is my 20s, please indulge me.
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 heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the day returns too soon,
Yet we'll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.
Byron was 29 when he composed the above [heavy-handed hint, heavy-handed nudge - Ed.], but died a mere seven years later. Impossibly romantic to the end, I imagine.
|Lord Byron. G-G to his mates.|
PS - In truth, I'm not actually feeling very dramatic about reaching the 30s. And if this post was a bit too serious for your liking, then there's always last year.