Along the misty moors doth dwell
a maiden of the fairest kind.
Her heart could cause the world to swell
with all the beauty of her mind.
Her face was fresh as morning dew,
her lashes, long and black.
Her fiery hair swung free as rain
halfway down her perfect back.
And she was just to all the men
that tipped their hat her way.
But for all her smiles, she would never find
a man that'd come to stay.
She cried, in peace and solitude,
for a love that she could keep.
And one kind man, on a misty eve,
heard her sweet, sad, weep.
He swam the deepest moat that shone,
battled dragon that dared fight,
he climbed a trellis of a thousand feet
when he heard her tears that night.
At last he reached the tower's end,
to claim his weeping rose,
but she was gone, dead from her grief
clutching tear-stained clothes.
He tried to wake her from her sleep,
to taste her naked lips.
But she would never know his face,
or wake from true love's kiss.
