The sun goes out. The world ends. And Byron writes it like he’s already seen it happen.

No romance here, no wit, no charm — just sixty unforgettable lines imagining the end of everything: civilization collapsing, humanity turning on itself, the last light going out for good. Written in a single sitting during the literal “Year Without a Summer,” when the sky actually did go dark across Europe and everyone, briefly, thought the apocalypse might be real.

This is Byron with absolutely nothing to seduce you with. Just dread, beautifully written.

Curated and introduced by G. Ashworth.

This is the only poem in the collection he’s never once tried to explain to me.