[From: The Last Journal of Gwyllyn]
O! to breathe the blessëd air
full of pearl and blazing gold,
of juniper and marigold,
on distant islands ever-fair.
The sundering waves surge like hills
crashing down to very hell,
with deeps that teem with krakens fell
- but hark, the song of whippoorwills!
Rising soft above the fray,
a song no tumult could defile
from a blissful garden-isle
blooming out in Ever-Day!
O! for wings to hasten there,
across the wide and surging sea,
to find the fair birds calling me
from the bright and blessëd air!
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