The silent sail into the murky mid,
Who then would hear a knocking bid.
Thrice the sound below the wave,
Shall shook such will and all such brave.
Choices and act and feverish fact,
Could not be budge for land to tract.
For remain of morn was a journal be curse,
With four muddy words: “I did knock first.”
On evening night the stars appear, Francis take a stroll,
And row and row to yonder lake, bless her heart and soul.
With careless free her mind then stare the jewel of the night,
Till sudden thrice the knock she heard and shook with startling fright.
With logic tune and question ask, oblivious from below,
Of fear infect the body soul, she will never know,
Cause morning came she fade from world, except for her book,
With lasted words with muddy print by stranger of the brook.
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