Beyold the moot hill, yee heights that wuther
Lo! a little bird braces your wild wind
She stirs, barely but hard her plumage
Lest a soul, not she perches, for hope she stirs
So gentle her ditty I heard
yet attune nay but pop
tis strange not,
the bobolink akin my soul, I couldn't fathom
So out I crept by the eerie night
and solemn by self, away she withered
at last a day, back home I treaded
but only so a spur late, alas a day!
that poor little bird
by the east wind she floated away
Perhaps another soul, or pensive her own
out of sight her drift, so a void inside, black a hole
Is it thy soul thine not your own?
I heard the wuther echoe
Yee who are weary come home!
where feet tread, and no winds
L