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The Hallowing Of Heirdom
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Winterfylleth
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Old are the woods And the buds that do break From the coarse brier's boughs When the fierce winds wake Old are our ways As the streams that still rise Where the snow now sleeps cold In the deep azure skies So, who are we now A horde of their ghosts? Or oaks that were acorns From the trees of their hopes? Sing of such a history Of come and of gone If their means they were wise In ourselves they live on So, who are we now A horde of their ghosts? Or oaks that were acorns From the trees of their hopes?
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