The morn doth rise and fleet the shade
Where silence melts to song profound,
Souls of but mere paper o’er embers laid,
The divine now wanes, its charm unbound.
Tetrameter Six
By
By
The morn doth rise and fleet the shade
Where silence melts to song profound,
Souls of but mere paper o’er embers laid,
The divine now wanes, its charm unbound.
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