gothic poetry

wheel me down by the meadow
gone are the three, those sisters rare
i shake my hair in the wind of morning
i love my hour of wind and light
he'd even have his joke
and breaketh bread no more
if i should die, think only this of me
babylon-where i go dreaming
see, they return
among the mountains i wandered
melancholy days have come
in his guarded tent
all day to watch the blue wave curl and break
your body's motion is like music