Unusually for Manadhlaer, this page contains only a few sentences struck out, and then finally a poem.
All around me swans, black, burgundy, and gold,
but a silver-headed swan has flown away,
far across the Sea without me, though the season
for nesting would soon have come upon us.
Now summer sweeps the inland river-vale
with purple irises and bluebells -- especially blue roses
whose cheeks are fairer than the blush of a pink diamond
but did not bloom in time for the most beautiful swan.
Ai! how the flock is diminished. Its prince is wild with grief
and tears out his breast-feathers. What cry, save the gull’s,
is as piercing as his or mine, bereft and far from home?
