Through the Hyrst of Midwinter Ghosts.

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Lo, I see.

Through the fog and freeze,
through the reddened evergreen,
hung still on the breeze.

Nine of each kind to appease
the lordly, wise and mighty.


Lo, I hear.

Now, my fathers sing
on rising winds through the trees,
and slowly they swing.

Silenced in awe and beauty,
bound in blood wrung in duty.

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