Lord Byron

poems:

21

my soul is dark

My soul is dark - Oh! Quickly string the harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear, that sound shall charm it forth again: If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 'twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. But bid the strain be wild and deep, nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nursed, and ached in sleepless silence, long; And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, and break at once -- or yield to song.

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