To Anne.

A poem by Lord George Gordon Byron


Oh, Anne, your offences to me have been grievous:
I thought from my wrath no atonement could save you;
But Woman is made to command and deceive us -
I look'd in your face, and I almost forgave you.


I vow'd I could ne'er for a moment respect you,
Yet thought that a day's separation was long;
When we met, I determined again to suspect you -
Your smile soon convinced me suspicion was wrong.


I swore, in a transport of young indignation,
With fervent contempt evermore to disdain you:
I saw you - my anger became admiration;
And now, all my wish, all my hope's to regain you.


With beauty like yours, oh, how vain the contention!
Thus lowly I sue for forgiveness before you; -
At once to conclude such a fruitless dissension,
Be false, my sweet Anne, when I cease to adore you!

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