Spenserian stanza

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Upon a misty morn in April’s hold,
When buds their tender leaves unfold,
And daffodils do dance in fields of gold,
The world is cloaked in hues untold.
Yet through this charm of nature’s grace,
A soul doth wander, far from home’s embrace.

In heart’s recesses, dreams arise,
Of distant lands and days of old,
Where echoes softly whisper, “Thrice we prize
Our fleeting moments, uncontrolled.”
Thus, as the sun its path does trace,
The poet’s verse in shadows trace.

Prompt

Negative prompt

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