Where walks the sacred lady whose pale and brilliant visage, like the moon, smiles at times in this darkness? Why must she turn her face away? Ah, perhaps to turn again on us. Hark, like a ghost, her steps so silently tread this path of autumn leaves which have fallen and dried upon these ruined stones. Fairy or elfin maid, why visit you this castle of forgotten years? Was it once new to you? Whose proud and bearded head once built these ramparts for a war now nameless in our annals? Perhaps we were the victors, their children, or love conquered all, and we can claim both ancestry? Still, you walk, the last of your race, fair and beautiful; a dream that, when pursued, how guilty I am, retreats in the dawn. I wake again. There is nothing but the fall and whispers of winter in the wind.
Whispers of Winter
Tale Told 