I
dwell among the misty hills,
Where
evening chalice-light is spilled,
And
oh, the phantoms of thy mind,
Creep,
silent, silent, to my will.
Hold
me, hide me, velvet grace.
My
name is Ulf, but call me never.
On
the ridges of forever,
When
I am the sentinel-
That’s
where realism’s severed.
Shroud
my race, oh gentle mist
By
thy grace do we exist.
You
may hear me in the gloam
Where
the ghostly winds do roam
In
the shadows where thy kind
Fear
to think of heart and home.
Gentle
mist, be thou my shroud
Kiss
me, hold me, gracious cloud.
I
stalk the edges of a dream
Half-corporeal
I seem
Hold
the faith and keep it well;
Visions
from the past redeemed.
Mist
so gentle, shroud my race;
Our
existence? By thy grace.
Perhaps
my tale is almost run?
Beg
the unforgiving sun-
Turn
his face from misty hills-
Lest
I, and all my race, be done.
Hold
me, hide me, mist, be kind
To
my race let man be blind.
