Innocent? Not Any More.

I read an old romance novel that I used to love. It has a very sweet and innocent plot and the more intimate parts are very tame. Funny, they didn't seem tame three years ago. The fact the book bored and left me wanting more surprised and shamed me. I'm not that innocent any more, unlike the little kitty to the left.

If I could change that part of my life, I would. Maybe I still can but I doubt it. Now things are a little out of my control. Oh well, I guess I just have to lay in the bed I made.

Here's a poem that's stuck in my head:

I would I were A Careless Child

By: Lord Byron

1

I would I were a careless child,

Still dwelling in my Highland cave,

Or roaming through the dusky wild,

Or bounding over the dark blue wave;

The cumbrous pomp of Saxon pride,

Accords not with the free born soul,

Which loves the mountains craggy side,

And seeks the rocks where billows roll.

2

Fortune, take back these cultur'd lands,

Take back this name of slendid sound!

I hate the touch of servile hands,

I hate the salves that cringe around;

Place me among the rocks I love,

Which sound to oceans wildest roar;

I ask but this-again to rove

Through the scenes my youth hath known before.

3

Few are my years, and yet feel the

World was ne'er designed for me

Ah! why do darkning shades conceal

The hour when man must cease to be?

Once I beheld a splendid dream,

A visionary dream of bliss;

Truth!-wherefore did thy hated beam

Awake me to a word like this?

4

I lov'd- but those I love are gone;

Had friends, my early friends are fled.

How cheerless feels the heart alone,

When all its former hopes are dead!

Though gay companions, o'er the bowel

Dispel awhile the sense of ill,

Though Pleasure stirs the maddening soul,

The heart-the heart- is lonely still

5

How dull, to hear the voice of those

Whom Rank or chance, whom Wealth or Power,

Have made, though neither friends nor foes,

Associates of the festive hour.

Give me again a faithful few,

In years and feelings still the same,

And I will fly the midnight crew,

Where boisterous joy is but a name.

6

And Woman, lovely woman! thou,

My hope, my comforter, my all!

How cold must be my bossom now,

When e'en thy smiles begin to pall!

Without a sigh would I resign,

This busy scene of splendid Woe,

To make that calm contentment mine,

Which virtue knows, or seems to know.

7

Fain would I fly the haunts of men-

I seek to shun, not hate mankind;

My breast requires a sullen glen,

Whose gloom may suit a darkened mind.

Oh! that to me the wings were given

Which bears the turtle to her nest!

Then would I cleave the vault of Heaven,

To flee away, and be at rest.

~Lord Byron