The enchantress weaves


    Strange spells that cast a falling sun


    Into funereal regions dark,


    To rest on towers of shadow and mist,


    Whose dream-mottled castle have


    Time’s spectre for its steward.


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    In the silence, a tyrant walks


    In the thunder-echoing sky,


    In levinbolt palaces


    Somber and grey


    Beyond a moon


    Moated with


    Ever-withering infinities.