Here, then, I think is a moral for us, Another is tyrannosaurus-- Tyrannosaurus, what of him, The monarch of this world one time, Back in the æons wet and dim? He faded like a pantomime. And he could, well, step over trees, Crunch up bowlders like cracking nuts, Flip horses away like bumble-bees, Stretch out in valleys as if they were ruts; And hide a man in his nostril's hole, And crush young forestry just like weeds. He came and went, and what's your soul, And what is mine with their crying needs? And love that seemed eternal once, Given of God to lift, inspire, Well--now do we see? Was I dunce Drunk with the wine of soul's desire? Who made that wine, why did I drink it? Why did I want it? What's the game? Are spirits chaos? I scarce can think it. Why fly for the light and get the flame? Is love for souls of us chlorophyll That makes us eatable, sweet and crisp For Gods that raise us to feed their fill? Who lives, the dreamer, the will o' the wisp? Do Gods live, vanish, return again? Who in the devil has love or luck? One thing is true, there's rapture and pain. As for the rest, I pass the buck. Something occurs, and God knows what, Tyrannosaurus fades like a ghost. That throws a light on our little lot, Love that is won, love that is lost. Even a hundred years from now, If this poor earth is rolling still, Hearts will quiver, break or bow-- Provided the plants have chlorophyll. Oh well! Oh hell! We must be heroic, And it helps to scan a million of years. And to think of monstrous beasts mesoic, Brightens, though it dries no tears. I'll dream for life of our walks by the river-- That was March and it's now July. And this remains: I'll love you forever-- Burn up the letters now--Good by! LORD BYRON TO DOCTOR POLIDORI No more of searching, Doctor--let it go. It can't be lost. I have a memory I put it in a drawer, or again I seem to see me tuck it in a pocket Of some portmanteau. If you find the letter Deliver it to Moore. But if it's lost, The story is not lost. I tell you this To save the story from my side. Attend! It was this way: Allegra had become A child requiring care, and nutritive Instruction in religion, morals, well, They call me blasphemer and sensualist, But read my poems. Christianity Was never of rejected things with me. The Decalogue is good enough, I think. And Shelley's theories, atheist speculations I never shared--nor social dreams. The scheme Of having all things, women, too, in common Means common women. I have sinned, I know-- I call it sin. The marriage vow I honor, And woman's virtue. Though I stray, I hold That women should be chaste, though man is not. That's why I placed Allegra in a convent....