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ㅤ 𝔊𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑢𝑚, 𝑂𝑎𝑘 — ℒady, deign to smile.
ㅤㅤ •┈┈┈┈┈┈୨♡୧┈┈┈┈┈┈•
ㅤㅤ⚘ 𝒯was almost like the deep woods has its own harem. Neath the penumbra of autumn trees, shone sparkles and shimmers from yonder. If you move a close, they'll flit elsewhere immediately. But ken that they wert never to leave us void straight to be pensive in peccant vapours, even when not in sight, they were there behind shadows.
𝒜nd all the colloquies about them were never any humbug. Twas only the hebdomadal complacency work of them that bloomed blossom spring, forsooth, them and nature wert always in good intelligence. And their dalliance for it, wert what kept the clime a bright.
ㅤㅤ⚘ 𝒜lmost miscellaneous, they were a booty of mine mien. Twinkling casement of emotions appended to their mealy skin, perfected their already canty complexion. You mought not ken their charm, without you had an interview with them.
ℬut one from the others, wert different. The little faerie, had wings like butterflies. Blossoms on her hair were like favours, and her frame wert wrapped by, rather than tailored, exuberant calico. She wert a wild beauty, indeed. Dainty, fragile, beauty, as gossamer as zephyrus. But she deigned a smile, still. The one you are being told of, is only, 𝐌𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐞 𝐃𝐞 𝐄𝐮𝐩𝐡𝐞́𝐦𝐢𝐚 𓂃.𖧧 ָ࣪
ㅤㅤ
ㅤ 𝔊𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑛𝑖𝑢𝑚, 𝑂𝑎𝑘 — ℒady, deign to smile.
ㅤㅤ •┈┈┈┈┈┈୨♡୧┈┈┈┈┈┈•
ㅤㅤ⚘ 𝒯was almost like the deep woods has its own harem. Neath the penumbra of autumn trees, shone sparkles and shimmers from yonder. If you move a close, they'll flit elsewhere immediately. But ken that they wert never to leave us void straight to be pensive in peccant vapours, even when not in sight, they were there behind shadows.
𝒜nd all the colloquies about them were never any humbug. Twas only the hebdomadal complacency work of them that bloomed blossom spring, forsooth, them and nature wert always in good intelligence. And their dalliance for it, wert what kept the clime a bright.
ㅤㅤ⚘ 𝒜lmost miscellaneous, they were a booty of mine mien. Twinkling casement of emotions appended to their mealy skin, perfected their already canty complexion. You mought not ken their charm, without you had an interview with them.
ℬut one from the others, wert different. The little faerie, had wings like butterflies. Blossoms on her hair were like favours, and her frame wert wrapped by, rather than tailored, exuberant calico. She wert a wild beauty, indeed. Dainty, fragile, beauty, as gossamer as zephyrus. But she deigned a smile, still. The one you are being told of, is only, 𝐌𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐞 𝐕𝐢𝐞 𝐃𝐞 𝐄𝐮𝐩𝐡𝐞́𝐦𝐢𝐚 𓂃.𖧧 ָ࣪
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