Since others it hath ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
Still let me love!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief,
Are mine alone!
The fire that on my bosom preys
Is lone as some volcanic isle;
No torch is kindled at its blaze -
A funeral pile!
The hope, the fear, the jealous care,
The exalted portion of the pain
And power of love, I cannot share,
But wear the chain.
But 'tis not thus -and 'tis not here -
Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now,
Where glory decks the hero's bier,
Or binds his brow.
The sword, the banner, and the field,
Glory and Greece, around me see!
The Spartan, borne upon his shield,
Was not more free.
Awake! (not Greece -she is awake!)
Awake, my spirit! Think through whom
Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake,
And then strike home!
Tread those reviving passions down,
Unworthy manhood! -unto thee
Indifferent should the smile or frown
Of beauty be.
If thou regret'st thy youth, why live?
The land of honourable death
Is here: -up to the field, and give
Away thy breath!
Seek out -less often sought than found -
A soldier's grave, for thee the best;
Then look around, and choose thy ground,
And take thy rest.
This poem, written by one of my favourite poets (Lord Byron) in my favourite country (Greece), in Missolonghi, on January. 22, 1824 is dedicated to the icon, the actress, the first-lady-to-be, the addicted, the blonde ambition, the new Helen of Troy, the I-am-always-late, the diva, the caviar-lover, the myth, the short-sighted, the victim, the forever young, the do-be-do, the temptation who lives uptairs, the milionaire-catcher, the blessed, the cursed, the lucrative product, the sex-symbol, the fostered girl, the showgirl, Chanel Number 5 few drops, the lonely girl, the bombshell, the diamond's best friend, the bus stop girl, the candle in the wind, the happybirthday Mr. President, the legend, in fact, THE WOMAN. Why Lord Byron? Because they both died at the age of thirty-six.
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