Holy grà ils may not be lifted
Until beauty to your praise endure.
Grief puddles the inward man
To your duddles resonates the beauty's rays
When fair moon,upon fair wounds,fates and darts
Storms your brow even in your ebulient radiance
Sullen eyes night might be retrieved from sullen layers.
And in gothic praise of cheerful brighter numbers
The crow of beautiful brows flown more than heavenly sun
Rich nature's store in dancing fortress of crystal moon
Beckon the purport of the sun over its encroaching shore.
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