In the mists below the temple
Sleeps the lovely Windamere
Softly from her gentle breathing
Slide wet cloud about her hair
Is she dreaming of past ages
When younger limbs held court each year?
Or is she sighing for those high pastures
Which her people held so dear?
Who can say, orphan or empress
Is the lady Windamere
Upon her lips there is a smile
Behind her eyes a falling tear.
CMPC
Monsoon ’95 |
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