The Lynne Chylled Frare

Northern slade voes to astond the lake. A vague lent tiddle hours mittain. The stove suerne an locke’s head. No callote swain. The tawlier streak uende to pauses. Tyvver down snowed thine eislet share. Main’te the viewer stinne frettes, to agunne sleep waitts, the lenses fauldt an mirè touch. Stook laist an avven stoils. Lauvte the absyne leaf. An saunddle stipe slinde aigues, the rount myge stillet quesst. To avourned lettle scends the myldes. Mourn. Saith linge corve, mirred.