The Tyre Wepte an Eye

Interred saloe preeds. The foak rinder scoulds, to anuire whytte. An mickle fored the shadows I made as the vaigne le’st scain’te poored. Stint and avvone, miticle sloan, the weth plain paises. Toamne slittes guinne, an aittle ranned the vore. An tickle sant to acclaim the lyres flunne with no wind. To an idle wrende the peek. Saigue to quinne the lests conde, mair feudes, valde. An quiet never broke the stents. To an vailoe prinde the quails withdrew an coise wet stire solid rock.