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(Byron)

My dark soul. hurry, singer, probably!
Here is a golden harp:
Let your fingers, promchavshisya on it,
Awake to the sounds of the strings of paradise.
And if you do not ever hope rock blew,
They wake up in my chest,
And if there is a drop in the sight of the frozen tears -
They melted and poured out.

Let it be a song of your Wild. As my crown,
I have painful sounds fun!
I am telling you: I want tears, singer,
Or rip the breast of flour.
She was suffering more than average,
It languished for a long time, and silently;
And the terrible hour had come - now it is full,
As the cup of death, full of poison.

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