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 heave 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.



(с) Byron



Пролистывала тетрадь по английской литературе... Очень нравится сие творение Байрона, очень...



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