When the hand lays on sights, dead,
That collapsed dust from earlier time,
That acceded some time beyond the winds, lead
With the lining, cried at first breath.
Doth the rooms that kiss the gold of night
As when the mutters of veiled chance
Bested the light that silence commended, strife,
As the rivers bound to death as the unquiet light.
When thy heart withers at unborn tears,
Beyond the dressing of the sea, condemned
By the forthright waves that wallow sails
And willow them too, no more from a valley dale,
The rivers that reflected the moon
That dream for light to chill the dell
And when among the intone, it broods and dwells,
The everlasting song, thy unrest that shines the wells,
That laid the dirge of the last sight,
With unrest from the earlier time (which is change),
With the lining, alive, above a river of dead stream,
And collapsed at beheld dried tears that portrayed
The beams through the walls and which intertwines
At the ravels through medieval structures, shrine of Death,
And blazed it was, and it coursed through windy twine.
With unrest, such as I, with the night dead as
Brightness that the air encloses—and the ghostly fragile
Eidolons fall to no dream, thus silence so deep that lies
The pupil, shriveled back—and the confines of the vision
Led the breaking of the glass, strained,
Where they surfed upon hours in the daylight, subtly,
With their collection of boards, ah! It was the times!
And none fell, but only glided through present waters
That tapped through waves, swept the memory,
Where they gifted floods. It was the times,
The ages that slung over the narrow trees of dawn,
I’d give all that doubt, and in all fairness,
It would be the eminence of oceans that went passing by
That with the pours of wretched water, still rain,
Could become cool as the pause of the land through
The warmth abating,
Through the cold of lone chill—
Wind, doth you possess
That when the wax from honeycombs drop,
The time, tumult, can be the dream
That is breathed upon the streams forgotten.
And as I looked from the window,
The ledge was a white rock with little openings,
And the glass had drops that surmounted wind,
I could see the lay of late autumn, not summer,
Well, I wouldn’t know upon the moans of windfall
But that came as lustrous as the washed waves in dim lighting,
And as it presumed, doth the dream be hope,
Doth the upright deadened shores be clung to air, eternal,
And then with rocks clashing the dark seas alone,
As the wish was for the avail that enamored hope?
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