Has one met a joyful poet
Dancing brightly on the moor,
Or wear we all a sash of sadness,
Cloaked in mist and mithering?
Mutts and mudstained lot we must be;
Lost word-weavers wending tales
And traipses we would fain all take,
If nothing but our sashes shed and
Moor mist shake, the trek
Would its own worth create.
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