CROOKED HANDS.PART 1

Crooked hands cringing upon the mountain walls,ringed with caged birds,in Sun's lonely,beneath him crawls the wrinkled seas and thunderbolt falls,nether caws purloined by thunderstorms of the azure castles and caves'walls.This pure brows of mysterious glimmer steams.Fairy little elf,awkward rosy noses and floppy cap upon this boodle,white eyebrows flaring and flating over jaunty steps across bonfire glow of the muddy pond,golden gleam,his sentinel cast down the coarse darkwood,sunk hearaches,dull opiate of the numbed pang,drains melodious promenade of beechen greenfields and numberless shadows,purple stained pale of the haply queen moon,embalmed verdurous blossom and the winding thicket of the grassy fruit tree wild,pastoral eglantine,white hawthorn and faded violets,muskyrose,endeared to dewy wine of groaning flies fret upon summer eves.And to sing they sing,ears in vain,a sod high in their requiem,to which my songs sing and jubilant as the old sleigh bells.Forlorn lands and forlorn seas could not contain