A gift from one who knows me true,
This tome of Byron's endless hue.
His words, like wine, are rich and deep,
A romantic soul that stirs the sleep.
Yet though his shorter flights may soar,
The longer verse becomes a chore.
What once was passion, fire, and flame,
At length, grows weary, feels the same.
Still, I praise his name with grace,
For in his art, I find my place.
A four I give, for he remains
The icon of romantic reigns.