WE'LL GO NO MORE A-ROVING by Lord Byron

O, we'll go no more a-roving

So late into the night,

Though the heart be still as loving,

And the moon be still as bright.

For the sword outwears its sheath,

And the soul wears out the breast,

And the heart must pause to breathe,

And love itself have a rest.

Though the night was made for loving,

And the day returns too soon,

Yet we'll go no more a-roving

By the light of the moon.

It's poems like this that make me hate poetry. The author of this poem doesn't even know what he's talking about, let alone me. I guess if you can throw a couple of rhymes together you're considered a good poet.