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Updated: June 17, 2025
So much I dread my burden and my fere.* And now we 'gan draw near unto the gate, Right well escap'd the danger, as me thought, When that at hand a sound of feet we heard. My father then, gazing throughout the dark, Cried on me, 'Flee, son! they are at hand. With that, bright shields, and shene armours I saw But then, I know not what unfriendly god My troubled with from me bereft for fear.
A little way apart, shadowed by his name in death no less than in life, lies Stella, the pale, dark-haired child whose wide eyes filled with love as they followed the poor and lonely scholar through stately Shene or the prim rococo epicureanism of Moor Park. She sleeps as she lived, at her master's feet.
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