So, we’ll go no more a roving
So late into the night,
Though the heart be still as loving
And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
Arid the soul wears out the breast,
And the heart must pause to breathe,
And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
And the clay returns too soon,
Yet we’ll go no more a roving
By the light of the moon.

Venecia, 1817.

 Lord Byron.