Fare Thee Well
by Lord Byron (1788-1824)

Fare thee well! and if for ever—
⁠      Still for ever, fare thee well—
Even though unforgiving, never
⁠      ’Gainst thee shall my heart rebel.—
Would that breast were bared before thee
⁠      Where thy head so oft hath lain,
While that placid sleep came o’er thee
⁠      Which thou ne’er canst know again:
Would that breast, by thee glanced over,
⁠      Every inmost thought could show!⁠
Then thou would’st at last discover
⁠      ’Twas not well to spurn it so.
Though the world for this commend thee—
⁠      Though it smile upon the blow,
Even its praises must offend thee,
⁠      Founded on another’s woe—
Though my many faults defaced me,
⁠      Could no other arm be found,
Than the one which once embraced me,
⁠      To inflict a cureless wound!⁠
Yet—oh yet—thyself deceive not—
⁠      Love may sink by slow decay,
But by sudden wrench, believe not
⁠      Hearts can thus be torn away:
Still thine own its life retaineth—
⁠      Still must mine—though bleeding—beat,
And the undying thought which paineth
⁠      Is—that we no more may meet—
These are words of deeper sorrow
⁠      Than the wail above the dead;⁠
Both shall live—but every morrow
⁠      Wake us from a widowed bed.
And when thou would’st solace gather—
⁠      When our child’s first accents flow—
Wilt thou teach her to say ‛Father!’
⁠      Though his care she must forego?
When her little hands shall press thee—
⁠      When her lip to thine is pressed—
Think of him whose prayer shall bless thee—
⁠      Think of him thy love had blessed.⁠
Should her lineaments resemble
⁠      Those thou never more may’st see—
Then thy heart will softly tremble
⁠      With a pulse yet true to me.—
All my faults perchance thou knowest—
⁠      All my madness—none can know;
All my hopes—where’er thou goest—
⁠      Wither—yet with thee they go.—
Every feeling hath been shaken;
⁠      Pride—which not a world could bow—
Bows to thee—by thee forsaken,
⁠      Even my soul forsakes me now.—
But ’tis done—all words are idle—
⁠      Words from me are vainer still;
But the thoughts we cannot bridle
⁠      Force their way without the will.—
Fare thee well!—thus disunited—
⁠      Torn from every nearer tie—
Seared in heart—and lone—and blighted—
⁠      More than this I scarce can die.

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