#just listening to an audio recording of Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage on a Sunday morning as I work on a puzzle

[spookyscribe]

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.

— Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto The Third,

XV, by George Gordon Lord Byron