ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪᴇʀ ᴀꜱ ᴛᴡɪʟɪɢʜᴛꜱ ꜰᴏʟᴅꜱ, ᴜɴꜱᴘᴏᴋᴇɴ ᴡᴏʀᴅꜱ.
ᴛʜᴇ ᴍᴀʜᴏɢᴀɴʏ ᴅᴀʀᴋ ᴀɴᴅ ᴘᴏʟɪꜱʜᴇᴅ ʀᴇꜰʟᴇᴄᴛɪɴɢ ꜱɪʟᴇɴᴄᴇ  
ᴘᴜʟꜱɪɴɢ ᴡʜɪꜱᴘᴇʀꜱ, ᴄʟᴏᴀᴋᴇᴅ ɪɴ ᴅᴇᴀᴅ ᴏꜰ ɪɴᴠɪꜱɪʙʟᴇ
ᴛʜʀᴇᴀᴅꜱ. ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰʀᴀɢʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴍᴏꜱꜱ. ᴀ ʀᴇᴍɪɴᴅᴇʀ
ᴛʜᴀᴛ ᴅᴇᴀᴛʜ ᴀᴡᴀɪᴛꜱ, ꜰᴏʀ ᴀ ᴊᴏᴜʀɴᴇʏ ᴛᴏ ᴀ ᴅɪꜰꜰᴇʀᴇɴᴛ
ᴘʟᴀᴄᴇ. ᴇɴᴅɪɴɢ ɪɴ ᴇᴄʜᴏᴇꜱ ᴏꜰ ꜱᴛɪʟʟɴᴇꜱꜱ. ᴜᴘᴏɴ ᴛʜᴇ ʙɪᴇʀ
ᴀꜱ ᴛᴡɪʟɪɢʜᴛ ꜰᴏʟᴅꜱ.

In twilight’s hush, where shadows pray,
For sweet Elinore, lost to day,
The weeping willows bend and sigh,
As silver stars blink in the sky.

The whispering wind calls out her name,
A fleeting touch, a ghostly flame.
Oh, where has dawn’s bright darling fled?
To silent halls, where none have tread?

The roses weep in crimson dew,
Their petals soft—their sorrows true.
The brook, once laughing, hushes near,
As if it waits for her to appear.

Yet still the nightbird sings her song,
A mournful tune, both deep and long.
“Return, return,” the echoes plead,
But twilight holds her—lost, indeed.

So shadows kneel, and prayers rise,
To guide her soul through star-strewn skies.
Oh, sweet Elinore, sleep so bright,
Cradled in the arms of night.