Lord Byron (1788–1824)

THERE be none of Beauty’s daughters

With a magic like to thee;

And like music on the waters

Is thy sweet voice to me:

When, as if its sound were causing

The charmèd 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.