The unlikely grouping of intrepid youths who bear witness to the end of an era.
Score: 9067 | 5/10/17 |
At midnight, in the month of gloom,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from yaw her silvered rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon a quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Drifts into universal vale amist.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping fog about its breast,
The ruin molders into rest;
drink from Lethe, to see the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
A beauty sleeps and lo... where lies
Mother Mohriel, with her woes!