In
bending heather upon the moor,
in damp
and ghastly winds, the poorand crippled dove, spent from flight,
shudders and moans in grey moonlight.
Her fair wings are torn, her spirit bruised,
wearied by daylight, and by night confused.
Her wounds will not be swiftly mended,
in such desolate lands, so undefended.
Shadows are but small refuge from danger,
to such a frail damsel, to such a stranger
upon the moor, in the bending heather,
in the coming fierce and frigid weather.
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