But in Man’s dwellings he became a thing
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome,
Droop’d as a wild-born falcon with clipt wing,
To whom the boundless air alone were home:
Then came his fit again, which to o’ercome,
As eagerly the barr’d-up bird will beat
His breast and beak against his wiry dome
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom eat.
G.G.Byron, Childe Harol’s Pilgrimage, Canto III, stanza XV. Saturday Jun 4 @ 05:00pm
6 notes
tagged as: blood. byron. canto. childe harold's pilgrimage. falcon. george gordon byron. lord byron. melancholy. poem. quote. sad. stanza. wing. romanticism.

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