True

I rather prefer the scarce yet simple and faint whispers where the quiet reaches the quell as the still in the storm rises till the rains booned befall downward only to stain each of every argument born hearts there now bared complain not and would never quell this that nor Any nightingales sound nay Even wing I say Yet do tell Miss daylight to ponder her path well until the end of the oceans crest bequeath her to sing hover now Miss cloud o’er the line which ne’r were to be crossed by sight nor lean nor light beamed ne’r any other cost under said bridge we two sailed hearts bared and sore singed and worn whilst the rings of loss tarred once more those reckless hearts of men were the to be drowned if ffor not their own separate tears