A moonlit lake of sorrow born,
Of looming trees and love once torn,
Of gentle wind and smell of sea,
Harbors still a silent plea,
"Release me"
On silvery nights,
When magic flows on misty wings,
And darkness hides the strangest things,
One might see a maiden pure,
Beckoning gently she seeks to lure,
You to the shore, to join in grief,
Woe to those who do believe,
A fay to be folklore.