The Moor

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The wind blows over the land of heather and swoops down to the moor

It brushes through the muckish waters of the lake to the rocky shore

It skips fast in the woodlands and around the soft-grassed meadows

It twists through the town and glances of the windows

And if you listen closely, and this be no folklore

You’ll hear the soft, faint noises

Of the fairies whisperin’ from the meadows

Near the waters, by the shore





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