It is sweet

                                       T is sweet to hear
       At midnight on the blue and moonlit deep
     The song and oar of Adria's gondolier,
       By distance mellow'd, o'er the waters sweep;
     'T is sweet to see the evening star appear;
       'T is sweet to listen as the night-winds creep
     From leaf to leaf; 't is sweet to view on high
     The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.

     'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark
       Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;
     'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark
       Our coming, and look brighter when we come;
     'T is sweet to be awaken'd by the lark,
       Or lull'd by falling waters; sweet the hum
     Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
     The lisp of children, and their earliest words.

     Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
       In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
     Purple and gushing: sweet are our escapes
       From civic revelry to rural mirth;
     Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps,
       Sweet to the father is his first-born's birth,
     Sweet is revenge—especially to women,
     Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.

     Sweet is a legacy, and passing sweet
       The unexpected death of some old lady
     Or gentleman of seventy years complete,
       Who 've made 'us youth' wait too—too long already
     For an estate, or cash, or country seat,
       Still breaking, but with stamina so steady
     That all the Israelites are fit to mob its
     Next owner for their double-damn'd post-obits.

     'T is sweet to win, no matter how, one's laurels,
       By blood or ink; 't is sweet to put an end
     To strife; 't is sometimes sweet to have our quarrels,
       Particularly with a tiresome friend:
     Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels;
       Dear is the helpless creature we defend
     Against the world; and dear the schoolboy spot
     We ne'er forget, though there we are forgot.

     But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,
       Is first and passionate love—it stands alone,
     Like Adam's recollection of his fall;
       The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd—all 's known—
     And life yields nothing further to recall
       Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,
     No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven
     Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.

Lord Byron - Don Juan

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