Lord Byron (1788–1824)

NO more—no more—Oh! never more on me

The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,

Which out of all the lovely things we see,

Extracts emotions beautiful and new,

Hived in our bosoms like the bag o’ the bee.

Think’st thou the honey with those objects grew?

Alas! ’twas not in them, but in thy power,

To double even the sweetness of a flower.

No more—no more—Oh! never more, my heart,

Canst thou be my sole world, my universe!

Once all in all, but now a thing apart,

Thou canst not be my blessing, or my curse:

The illusion’s gone forever.