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Elves of Mordred — Threads and Tuneage
In eras weird with old mythology, As if asleep the fabled country lay: Her wave-like hills and faerie forests dense, Her thorny brambles budding curling claws, And ivy circling all the woodsey way — The far swan’s cry came soft and woke them not. Forlorn, that selfsame call upon the gates Did break; those gates