There be none of Beauty's daughters
With a magic like Thee;
And like music on the waters
Is thy sweet voice to me:
When, as if its sound were causing
The charméd ocean's pausing,
The waves lie still and gleaming,
And the lull'd winds seem dreaming:
And the midnight moon is weaving
Her bright chain o'er the deep,
Whose breast is gently heaving
As an infant's asleep:
So the spirit bows before thee
To listen and adore thee;
With a full but soft emotion,
Like the swell of Summer's ocean.
More verses by George Gordon Byron
- Ode On Venice
- From The Portuguese, 'Tu Mi Chamas'
- Lines, On Hearing That Lady Byron Was Ill
- Inscription On The Monument Of A Newfoundland Dog
- One Struggle More, And I Am Free