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Shining tired on the waves
The setting sun;
Its beams, red and bright,
Gently pierce the sea.
Its chariotâs descending
The clear western sky;
Nightâs claiming her right
To rule the world.
Her wings open wide,
Under which weâll mourn and pray,
Will hide our shame;
My dear Guinevere,
In dismal grief weâll find
Full redemption.
A flock of crows,
Approaching noisily,
Stubbornly croaks
Sober words to me:
âThat yearning heart of yours!
You fool! What have you done?
Bringer of death,
Your soulâs forever lostâ.
Her wings open wide,
Under which weâll mourn and pray,
Will hide our shame;
My dear Guinevere,
In dismal grief weâll find
Full redemption.
Night's wings open wide,
Under which weâll mourn and pray,
Will hide our shame;
My dear Guinevere,
In dismal grief weâll find