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Epistle No 81

Mark how our shadow, mark Movits mon fre're

one small darkness encloses

How gold and purple that shovel there

to rags and rubbish disposes



Charon beckons from tumultous waves

then trice this ancient digger of graves

for thee ne're grapeskin shall glister

wherefore my Movits come help me to raise

a gravestone over our sister



Even deserous and modest abode

under the sighing branches



where time and death, a marriage forebode

'twixt beauty and ugliness ashes



To thee ne're jealousy findeth her way

nor happiness footstep, swift to stray

filleth amid these barrows

e'en enmity armed, as thou seest this day

piously breaketh her arrow



The little bell echoes the great bells groan

roved in the door the precentor

noisome with quiristers prayerful moan

blesses those, who enter



The way to this templed city of tombs

climbs amid roses yellowing blossoms

fragments of mouldering briers

till black-clad each mourner, his station assumes

bows there deeply in tears

Candlemass

Epistle No 81 / Candlemass

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