The sun is setting on the hill.
I know I have to go,
but I admit, so weak my will,
though better do I know,
I'm staying past the lighted hour.
The darkness soon will be in power.
My journey now, past unseen graves,
and through the haunted wood,
by strange and shadow bleeding caves
where meet the brotherhood,
must now be made within the night
by grace of my poor lantern's light.
I may get murdered, robbed, or lost,
perhaps I'll make it home,
but with these risks, a modest cost—
I had to write this poem.
And words unheard, breathed in a sigh—
For beauty, yes, I'd gladly die.
Tale Told 