Bid pleasing tales of hope and glory,
Brought by pages sung by canaries flying,
A sweetest word borne of bitter story,
Yet one could remember its feeling,
And so spell it forshook erst in part,
These are the footsteps of grass, snow;
Of rocks and shores. The simple heart,
Who goes where, where none go near,
Whose darkness sullied comes better fear,
Even whilst her conscience bids her here,
It is still her heart turning her gear,
Simply for the knowledge, it is passion;
She tests and wrests her flag on this island,
Though tempered shook can no moon undo;
Thunder strikes each maid lost how sessioned,
It is what mud itself can make flowers stew,
Though spell I name this kindred spell,
As though from nothing came pun as much,
How glory so pleasing of hope and tell,
That keeps such ladies going hundred much!
Indeed, I scorn the principled art desire,
So leavened my love be picked on hearth desire,
Each pluck and tear gives me more desire,
If it were love, I'd say it's moreso just desire!













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