Dying Land

Over the moor, their lanterns leading, the distant fairies my window pass. I noticed them last night. Again this night they journey on. I fear this exodus, that soon no more will magic in these lands be found.

Over the moor the fog grows thick, and rising moon, half covered by white silk, beams brightly yellow. And she, I know, will not desert this dying land, for though she flees into the dark, she comes again.

Over the moor the sun rises—I’ve at my window through the night—his mighty strength clearing the sky. The night is gone, my dreams are gone, and weakly grown, I’ll surly die.

Over the moor heaven looks down, the sinking land all dead.


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