Who’s got the sword? Am I hunting alone? With a final strike I seek to be the one The one that will strike the darkness Until it is gone But am I hunting alone? Feels like emptiness feels me up at every curve Struggling with feelings of doubt and self-worth Am I worth the gold that o desire Am I worthy of bearing this sword of fire? Who’s got the sword? Am I hunting alone? Comfort is something we pretend we all need So we crawl on our knees to avoid the scratches Of struggle But those with the sword Can’t hold it without proper form Glares arise from the knelt down eyes You feel may feel so overthrown, You care hunting alone.
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
-Lord Byron
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