No new pinions
Frisk my flight
To thy vision aloof
As I chance a flit
From one dwelling to another
Heath of moorland spread
In thy gilded play
Of breath, I loose
My existence away
I hold you dearly
Stooping to my
Sorrow tales
What quill
Fate folded, and
Filled the skies
My future vista
Was stolen, in
Frisk of flight
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