My heart was a graveyard before you came
Your arrival was violently gentle
So aggressively you made my barren land your own;
You took my dead trees and breathed life into them as you did me ...
Still sing the mocking fairies, as of old,
Beneath the shade of thorn and holly-tree;
The west wind breathes upon them, pure and cold,
And wolves still dread Diana roaming free
In secret woodland with her company.
'Tis thought the peasants' hovels know her rite
When now the wolds are bathed in silver light,
And first the moonrise breaks the dusky grey,
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