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Yonder looks misery peels hearts giving
Prey wasted on a dream giving fates
A play laid in storybook poems
My friends let us move on
To see past time requires more than eyes
Fight of pray on a ship passing fast
Night in the please seeking diseased
Strikes fast as the last of love passes
Light calls to fame ghost play
Died inside the bride of going his way
Cried at the slave only a naive pride
Within a moment to give was it sin
Outside walls wail in mental jail
Before the dawn we move on to be
Door in the hold closes and folds
Stay in her weigh water she takes
More in gold a fleeting soul turns pay
Desires in hours of lonely pass truth
Retires by the fires of desire and youth
Low it deceives as grieves want and need
Pyres in hours upon the spirit relieves
Rose she comes as one of the fruit of the grave
Knows a place faces erase pale of stone
Vine in time makes for the crime of being alone
Blows a crisp kiss as the bliss of nether foam
Divine as we go in show upon drama placed
Wine taste from the cup of grime in the waste
Flows like stars in mobile airs going past
Dine so fine in mink replaced by ramble and rod
Spring intersects in wet and guest upon a shade
Fling a cross on amber and lost lest of test
Way in shade lest not played on mystical beam
Wing as it will sand and kill in blood drained
On a play who will stay to honor the write
Run into fate as later and late dress the stage
Drop inside a wanting pride where to live
One a sandal and true as blue makes eyes cry
Say in the cost of no one lost a tree in smoke
Way to roll stroll past deceive a strong last wrong eve
Foes in hope slow the slope of weather to form
Stray lest in the bay so wanted as it is wrong
Strewn in stone left all alone on hill so cold
Sown her soul in a foal retained by grace laced
Lot in markers cast like the past of a path laid
Forgot in colors termed a learn of shadow saved
Throne leaves the white in maser bright a sorrow tries
Trouble passes in hours of grip left cold before the dawn
Shade of all that is owned left upon the fire of life
A lone to the scrip of master falls in halls of hero paid
Cup tipped as the wine runs out to follow home done
Author Notes
Sometimes when we read an author, inspiration comes from out of the wind, so it is with this work.
He was born Edward Marlborough Purcell at Bredfield House in Suffolk. His father, John Purcell, assumed in 1818 the name and arms of his wife's family, the FitzGeralds.
This name change occurred shortly after FitzGerald's mother inherited her second fortune. She had previously inherited over a half-million pounds from an aunt, but in 1818 her father died and left her considerably more than that. The FitzGeralds were one of the wealthiest families in England, and they inbred as well: FitzGerald's father boasted of being descended from a FitzGerald, and he married his first cousin. Edward FitzGerald later commented that all of his relatives were mad, and further commented that he was insane as well, but at least aware of the fact.
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