Frances Anne Kemble

Impromptu (I)

You say you’re glad I write—oh, say not so!
  My fount of song, dear friend, ’s a bitter well;
And when the numbers freely from it flow,
  ’Tis that my heart, and eyes, o’erflow as well.
 
Castalia, fam’d of yore,—the spring divine,
  Apollo’s smile upon its current wears:
Moore and Anacreon, found its waves were wine,
  To me, it flows a sullen stream of tears.
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