O MYSTICAL MOON
O MYSTICAL MOON I hail the moon; he primes his torch to salve my rest as gales gust ire. It rips gold robes of oak and lime They twirl in air; their song a dirge. My night king grins; this war is fate It will not stab his reign of bliss. His maids are stars to cheer the realm And charm a muse that... Sign in to see full entry.