Signal: oulipien.12
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
Blow, and burn slowly
No ground is ever gonna hold me
White candles in the manor, where the curse takes hold
Bodies reassembling down where the worms crawl
Make your own friends when the world's gone cold
Blow, and burn slowly
No ground is ever gonna hold me
White candles in the manor, where the curse takes hold
Bodies reassembling down where the worms crawl
Make your own friends when the world's gone cold