Poem by George Gordon Byron

Impromptu, in Reply to a Friend

When, from the heart where Sorrow sits,
⁠    Her dusky shadow mounts too high,
And o'er the changing aspect flits,
⁠    And clouds the brow, or fills the eye;
Heed not that gloom, which soon shall sink:
    ⁠My Thoughts their dungeon know too well;
Back to my breast the Wanderers shrink,
⁠    And droop within their silent cell.

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