She Walks in Beauty

Three handsome aristocrats at the beginning of the nineteenth century, and that was the end of any stereotype that ever existed of a poet as a tiny, sorry-looking specimen of humanity who used vicarious verse (which has an odd sound to it despite the alliteration, I know, but bear with me) to make up for the total lack of romanticism in his life. Nobody can accuse Byron of being boring any more than they can accuse him of wasting too much time polishing his poetry.

I tried to pick my personal favourite of his poems, but it was rather difficult. I can only name the ones that wouldn't figure: All is Vanity, Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer and When We Two Parted. It is not that I love Caesar less, but that I love Rome more... and I am now lost somewhere on the cobbled streets, and the day I can make up my mind where to go will be the day Wile E. Coyote turns vegan.

Well, it might happen.

On a slightly less illogical note, I think it would be a toss-up between Maid of Athens, The Isles of Greece and By the Rivers of Babylon, with The Destruction of the Sennacherib coming much higher on the list of Honourable Mentions than, I dare guess, most people would place it. Technically, I suppose, it is simply an exalted example of the misuse of metre, but it's the kind of thing that gives the impression that Byron himself had a very good time writing it.

One day, as I keep telling myself, I will know which I like best, whether the refrigerator light really goes off when you shut the door, the name of the person who commissioned the assassination of Philip of Macedon, and the exact value of pi. Until that day comes... There is, however little I like admitting it to myself, work to be done.