The windy years have strewn down distant ways; 
and in the halls still doth thy spirit sing 
songs of old memory amid thy present tears, 
or hope of days [bad word] half sad with many fears. 

Though along thy paths no [bad word] 
while war untimely takes thy many sons, 
no tide of treason can thy glory drown 
robed in sad majesty, the stars thy crown. 
I am the blood! 

Old mornings dawn, 
i am not the light you see, 
but only that which is falling on me. 

The misty stars thy crown, the night thy dress, 
most peerless magical thou dost possess my heart, 
and old [bad word] to life again, 
old mornings dawn...