Do not run weakly into that bright wood,

Do not run weakly into that bright wood,
prone trust should shine and roar at end of play;
fume, fume against the failing of the light.
Though just bards at their end know dark is fair,
Because their customs had launched no peace they
Do not run weakly into that bright wood,
bright bards, the best tread by, crying how bright
Their sick meanings might have growned in a green vale,
fume, fume against the failing of the light.
drunk bards who dreamed and urged the prince in bloom,
And learn, too hard, they hurt it on its way,
Do not run weakly into that bright wood,
sad bards, near hate, who grasp with bitter taste
failed trust could dance like diamonds and be sad,
fume, fume against the failing of the light.
And you, my love, there on the cruel ledge,
scold, touch, me now with your true lips, I pray.
Do not run weakly into that bright wood,
fume, fume against the failing of the light.

Crunch!