Heaven's gate knows no infinite boundaries,
for it is its moors that encompass its gates.
Often within the moorland to be kept open,
by a sexton whose shovel never truly abates.
There where the garths endeavour its grace,
with such remembrance of its true essence.
The endless tincture of the mackerel skies,
seems to hover on its unruffled countenance.
Where to be amongst it derives a fulfilment,
and the fancy to always then gang upon it.
Sundry moats and villatic straths as abodes,
attest for an ossuary that is moulded bit by bit.
It is with endearment that its coming of morning,
it shall bestow upon us afterwards its sheer light.
Do not ferret its coming it shall come to and fro,
and do not cast umbrage upon it with such might.
And a thrust of resounding echoes coming from adrift,
blow within the endless dales as it thus serves it well.
There to be among the liss of the moors is to be aligned,
with the clouds that hover from above nearby the swale.
If it could be asked to saunter upon the glare of the welkin,
it would bring a wonderful sparkle in his gleaming eyes.
A wonderment is seen in this churl who death as well as life,
is foreseen daily through the guise of he who lives and dies.
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