| In times, when I fain of a season
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| Itcs chill hold me wist, of an unknown reason
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| Greyness upon streams parlous and cool
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| Sheer the light which reflects from Plenilune
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| Ready to tale stars of wan, as both forwandered
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| And loath the ways thee all ran astounded
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| So did thine glaive rust with wind and water
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| So terrified of fallow thee roamed to gutter
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| Perhaps the fragments of thine willing skin
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| Saw no reflections of, what it called a bale king
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| Neither have Fall’s shades descended to leaves
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| Of no nightbird’s ashes belong to mine needs
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| Together a battle raged between moon
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| Likely the escorts of an velvect son
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| One lode led to forhungered wood
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| The frith were dark and thus thou run
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| As I see nothing but mere piece of meat
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| Trying to achieve as vision holds lack
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| Hanging upon wold, not wist the made plead
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| Twisting in gloam, this path fares not back…
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| Thus… Of no nightbird’s ashes shall I devour |