Verses by Byron:
There’s doubtless something in domestic doings
Which forms, in fact, true Love’s antithesis;
Romances paint at full length people’s wooings,
But only give a bust of marriages;
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,
There’s nothing wrong in a connubial kiss:
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch’s wife,
He would have written sonnets all his life?
There are truths that are too unpleasant and deservedly avoided. There is no denying it: marriage is the death of lyric-love poetry. Or, rather, it ends the latter the instant the desire is consummated. To exist, it is necessary that the poet regrets not having what he covets, that is, it is necessary that something hinders the realization of his fantasy. The verses will sprout only as long as the idealized object is unavailable, and therefore allows itself to be painted with extraordinary form, something that will never occur if it proves to be a real entity. And here we go: Petrarch’s love gave birth to verses because it was unrequited,—an obvious conclusion that needs no biographical support,—as it occurred and occurs with all his peers. Whatever one may say, this is the truth: the poet capable of fulfilling his own will will hardly ever make “love” verses.
