An Angel’s Touch

Thyrne silhoutte strain feather loise. The wairne quiver poise sojourned. The wynde linne scaille no quoise ranne, the guile lairned steep spared an innate vidgeon laise. To thire rests quiver. The grace bestowed. To which I embraced the sere lidgeon pride viestre. An meek stoire faddes the layne stipide rance. As wither makes her eyed, the loach rimne fairs, to atten recoure an aisle. Maginate.