| A ghoul amongst the graves
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| The poet bore his song into the forest
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| And there was no moon, the moon was new
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| A silver coin snatched from its purse by thieves
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| Drank deeply of the night, down the path and through the trees
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| He trembled as he strove to find
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| The secret ancient grove mankind
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| Was all too busy to desecrate
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| Where he wrote and wept and pretended to be
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| The only entity left in his beautiful world
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| He bore his prize before him, his passion and his effort
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| The seed was dressed in the poet’s cloak
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| Occult…
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| Concealed…
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| An infant spirited away by its wary watchful mother
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| Into the chapel where he worshipped tree and cone
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| And leaf and stone
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| The swaying evergreens caressed him
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| Stroked his cheek, the fireflies blessed him
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| He used a sexton’s shovel and spade
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| To dig a bed for the cowled thing
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| The thing that made the town afraid
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| That no one caused and no one made
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| The nightingale poured out its dirge
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| To accompany the funeral
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| The grave is dug, the seed is sown
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| The stars snuffed out, one by one
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| And as the morning crept ashore
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| A mound of earth on the forest floor
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| Where there was only moss the night before |