George Gordon Byron

My soul is dark – Oh! quickly string
    The harp I yet can brook to hear;
And let thy gentle fingers fling
    Its melting murmur 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 had 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.