…from the quills of dead white poets
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.
(From “Hebrew Melodies”)