{"id":81939,"date":"2015-01-22T16:45:02","date_gmt":"2015-01-22T21:45:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=81939"},"modified":"2015-01-22T16:23:46","modified_gmt":"2015-01-22T21:23:46","slug":"true-romance-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/01\/22\/true-romance-2\/","title":{"rendered":"True Romance"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Lord_Byron_coloured_drawing\"<\/a>

Byron, meditating on mortality, no doubt.<\/p><\/div>\n

\n

\u2019Tis time this heart should be unmoved,
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Since others it has ceased to move:
Yet, though I cannot be beloved,
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Still let me love!<\/p>\n

My days are in the yellow leaf;
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;
The worm\u2014the canker, and the grief
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Are mine alone!<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

So begins one of Byron\u2019s last poems<\/a>. Is it an ode to the Greek youth he loved? A general meditation on mortality? Choose your theory. The date, at least, we can estimate with a fair degree of accuracy. In the\u00a01825 Narrative of Lord Byron\u2019s Last Journey to Greece, <\/em>his friend, Count Gamba, related of the occasion:<\/p>\n

\n

This morning Lord Byron came from his bedroom into the apartment where Colonel Stanhope and some friends were assembled, and said with a smile\u2014\u201cYou were complaining, the other day, that I never write any poetry now:\u2014this is my birthday, and I have just finished something, which, I think, is better than what I usually write.\u201d He then produced these noble and affecting verses, which were afterwards found written in his journals, with only the following introduction: \u201cJan. 22; on this day I complete my 36th year.\u201d<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

The notorious poet would die in April of the same year, 1824, in Missolonghi. The prophetic nature of the poem may have been because of a new awareness of death; Byron\u2019s friend Shelley had died in 1822, his daughter Allegra a year later. After years of hedonism, Byron was facing the realities of violence.\u00a0Then, too, the baron lived hard, consuming alcohol with legendary intemperance. Although he would ultimately die of a fever, he\u2019s believed to have suffered a small stroke shortly beforehand.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Yesterday, a friend and I were discussing how inured we\u2014the global \u201cwe\u201d\u2014are to shock. Is there anything that could shock you today? We wondered.\u00a0Has<\/em> there been anything? More often than not revelations provoke a sense of sadness, or maybe disappointment, but even then it doesn\u2019t feel wholly unexpected. On those few occasions I\u2019ve felt a momentary pang, I chided myself for my na\u00efvet\u00e9. (The end of my own innocence was marked by the charges against my beloved Frugal Gourmet<\/a>. I\u2019d always dreamed of going on his children\u2019s Christmas specials.) Can you imagine enjoying<\/em> shock?\u00a0<\/p>\n

To this day, people speak with relish of Byron\u2019s scandals, his sexual liaisons and illegitimate children, his beauty, and his debauchery. I\u2019ve heard him described as one of the first modern celebrities\u2014at least, in terms of calculated image control. Of course, Byron was a nobleman, and so well-placed to scandalize polite society. But at the end of the day, it truly was his verse that caused such a sensation. Even in our jaded times, a rich man being accused of incest and driving a society matron to a suicide attempt would make Page Six. But say that guy were a poet\u2014would his work then start selling? Would it be read with scandalized glee and prompt a thousand admirers and imitators? That, at least, might be genuinely shocking.<\/p>\n

Sadie Stein is contributing editor of\u00a0<\/em>The Paris Review\u00a0and the\u00a0<\/em>Daily\u2019s correspondent.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u2019Tis time this heart should be unmoved,\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Since others it has ceased to move:Yet, though I cannot be beloved,\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf;\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;The worm\u2014the canker, and the grief\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Are mine alone! So begins one of Byron\u2019s last poems. Is it […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":178,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[13115],"tags":[16717,16722,16720,2186,16723,16718,10681,11168,12985,165,16721,16719],"class_list":["post-81939","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-our-daily-correspondent","tag-16717","tag-british-poetry","tag-count-gamba","tag-death","tag-george-gordon-byron","tag-january-22","tag-lord-byron","tag-mortality","tag-nineteenth-century","tag-poetry","tag-romantic-poets","tag-shock"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nLord Byron Stares at Death<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"Sadie Stein looks at one of Lord Byron\u2018s final poems, written in the year he died. \u201cMy days are in the yellow leaf;\/ The flowers and fruits of Love are gone...\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/01\/22\/true-romance-2\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"True Romance by Sadie Stein\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"January 22, 2015 \u2013 \u2019Tis time this heart should be unmoved,\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Since others it has ceased to move:Yet, though I cannot be beloved,\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 Still let me love! 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