Lord Byron as handsome as ever was still at his writing desk,
The jewellery and satin dressing gown still a touch burlesque,
But somehow manly too as was his usual debonair flair,
A touch of scented oil making the curls shine in his raven hair.
Polidori and Percy watched him in singular fascination,
Whist Mary came back from her trip to the local Swiss station,
Where she was collecting Claire Claremont her step-sister,
Byron merely sighed for he hadn't really thought he missed her.
His physician and his friend both idly stand and speculate,
Who his latest secret love affair is with of late,
For he seems both fond of men and women they both know,
He's been married and has children but his love is like snow.
It falls like soft kindness and endless fascination of a soul,
Or comes fast and hard and beats down hard on its goal,
Then lays for a while whilst the thrill slowly chills his heart,
Until it melts finally away merely waiting eagerly to restart.
How his face shines with a radiance you can tell he's been writing,
He has that look he only gets in love or when in poetry delighting,
A total immersion to the direction and aim of his happy craft,
He was holding in his excited hand the very first draught.
His eyes seem big and soulful a deep blue like a Greek sea,
He often said he would travel there too to live and die peacefully,
Away from the scandal and debts of a now disowned Britain,
Now he's by Lake Geneva as with the Villa Diodati he's smitten.
Such are his fleeting whims and endless intoxicating delights,
Lovers and paramours, madcap days or parties through the nights,
Daliances with locals or courtiers and heiresses wooed with art,
He knows how to entertain, has the title and fame to set him apart.
He has travelled extensively though got bored with the Grand Tour,
Left to make his own way through Europe a thirst to explore,
Ever hoping to quench his appetites and be truly inspired,
Never resting his spirit is a whirlwind stirring all until he's expired.
His lips are red from the claret and begged to be kissed,
Full and soft they're a feature that many a love has missed,
And he turns a little smile on them and they glow in it's path,
Each one hoping he will rest a while or maybe simply laugh.
But he's too caught up in his next work to be drawn away,
So they leave him be for now to satisfy his eagerness to stay,
When he writes if he's in the mood what heavenly poems spill,
A master of his own house and a genius of verse with a quill.
And the clock ticks whilst he scribbles in flourishes in-between,
He has in duels and fights, taverns and castles been happily seen,
Always fuelling the legends and stories that keep springing anew,
His boundless energy and delights as deep as the Lake is blue.
So here I give you the dark and enticing Lord Byron now,
Before a night in June when it turns to incessant rain somehow,
And they read fantastical stories and decide to create their own,
In just three days of his company a new legacy will have grown.
Hours later Byron dreams wistfully and looks out over the lawns,
Stretching his muscles he casts his thoughts to Venice and yawns,
He has two married sweethearts there he'd like to go visit soon,
No doubt another scandal looms and another heart will swoon.
At only twenty eight he had more than accomplished his noteriety,
And his third canto of Childe Harold may help push that boundary,
He had so much to give but little does he realise he hasn't got long,
He gave his vast fortune and life to Greece's independence song.
Six years later he would against his wishes be shipped by sea,
Back to Westminster Abbey who said his "questionable morality"
Meant he was refused and in a place in Hucknall laid to rest,
Secretly Greeks harboured his heart to keep him close to their chest.
His daughter Ada Lovelace shares his tomb with him,
A mathematician and writer who published the first algorithm,
Intended to be carried out by a computer only theorised of then,
The first programmer of a coming age her work used as and when.
So here sits Lord Byron oblivious to all that will transpire,
His creativity burnt low like the flame in the drawing room fire,
And he sees his visitors walking down the sweeping gravel drive,
Then lazily goes to greet them barely enthusiastic to be alive.
Mary Godwin embraced him upon the steps with hearty glee,
And Byron noticed the admiring look Shelley gave her fleetingly,
He had only half a passing fancy for "Jane" who came with them,
But she'd do for now as she had in the past, merely his lust to stem.
He flags at their side hardly the convivial host for a while,
And his doctor reminds him of his health and in his usual style,
Escorts him like some errant child towards his room and rest,
So in his sulk he bids them good day and to his pillow is pressed.
Like a Prince under the coverlet and sleeping deep he seems,
An innocent wild reckless heir hellbent on living his dreams,
And I admire him and the way he cared not for tongues just fame,
A tribute to his undying words and spirit is we still revere his name.