As I meander my way thru my land,
I look upon visions of the future,
A spectral wraith that doth evade mine hand,
A dread plague for which I have yet no cure.
I dream of dreams that cannot yet be dreamt,
I see a distant shore upon which mine
Footsteps cannot yet be wrought; dread contempt
Doth Fate deal to me with such a hand fine
Woe be to thee who doth understand now
How this weary traveler makes his way
To you I shall sir my pity allow,
It be not for man in this state to stay.
Look, yonder tower lights my path ahead.
Mayhaps good tidings shall bide in my stead.