Morn holy comes Elysium afortime,
the suns a-ris.
Uhta for-chose today ouver sublime
dew do to pris.
A blome fixes his gay, roseate lens.
Who’ll telle wic ar d’ washerwimmens?
Singeris (sum
wheeled) … who ku—
eth wythutan beads … who happens?
Uit Wætan
Pexels
Region |Washington DC
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