| By the way of the little wood
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| where once the faerie hill fort stood
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| then on the hip of the stream that winds
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| and through the mist of the root that binds
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| by the pool, by the stone
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| where the wild stag comes alone
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| in the black the raven’s wing
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| in the lays the salmons sing
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| beneath the blackthorn’s groaning bough
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| upon the hill’s moon crusted brow
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| and with the owl’s swift decree
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| then it is I’ll come to thee
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| when all is not as it would seem
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| and the wind speaks through a dream
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| and the fire is in the sea
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| then it is I’ll come to thee
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| not by storm nor by flame
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| yet by the way the darkness came…
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| In the dawning’s star pale light
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| in the need fire’s embers bright
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| when the earth grip has your bones
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| and the wind your dying moans
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| then it is I shall appear
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| like the shadows creeping near
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| dreaming seeded in my womb
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| flaming arrows from my loom
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| when the moon cup crowns the hill
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| and the reeds are blowing still
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| wait by the magick apple tree
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| there it is I’ll come to thee
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| When all is not as it has been
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| and the truth is as the dream
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| when the sword at last is free
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| then it is I’ll come to thee
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| not by storm, nor by flame
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| yet by the way the darkness came |