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Now if it's real or just a dream
In the dead of night she came
Only his own echo
There's an old tale wrought
with mystery
would wail back at his call
of Tom the Poet and his muse
And a magic lake
to him with darkness in her eyes
And when he swore
which gave a life
to the words the poet used
to bring back his love
Now the muse
she was his happiness
