My soul is dark, oh! Quickly strings
the harp I yet can brook to hear,
and let thy gentle fingers fling
it’s 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.
Oh, it will flow, Oh! It will flow.
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.
Oh, it will flow Oh! It will flow.
..and cease to burn in my brain.
Originally by J. G. Byron, 1815