It is a tale withought teduim with fellest rage resists, nor yet the course of storms careering all in ferious force. Through the woods let us roam, through the wasts wild and barren we are strangers at home, we are exils. The heathens are comming overseas, across the heaving waves. The sea will be red floods, and the skies like blood, blood-red in war, the world will show on the ridges of the hills.
Theres black grief on the plains, and a mist on the hills. when you fight see that you stay not out in the darkness of the night. There is a mist on our heads, and a cloud chill and hoary, of black sorrow, sheds an eclipse on our glory. The land of lakes in the uprooted wildwood, so transformed is her aspect. My soul in deep trouble, for the mighty are low. Are in exile and mourning, worn weary and pale are men who in flight from the field of disaster, beseach the black night on there flight to fall faster.
Lay your arms aside, lay by your armor would you dare to spread the slaughter far and wide, your very eyes, your glance, your air can murder withought axe or knife.
Practice every day has made my love perfect in his trade. He is the point of the lance in battle. It is he who throws light into the meeting on the mountain, who announces the ages of the moon.
The blood and water from his body flowed through the strenght of his descent for the judgment of doom, light of sun, radiance of moon, splender of fire, speed of lightning, swiftness of wind, depth of sea, stability of earth, firmness of rock. Through confession of the oneness. Though my best thought by day and night, waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.
It is long since my form has withered although my heart is sore, nevertheless the cry is musical to me. One rends my cheek, one smites my naked chest. Soft modest little rose of my round white brests. Fly with me my hundred loves and leave the land.
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