They shall rise with morning's light, and feed by the mossy stream. But my tears return with the sun. My sighs come on with the night. But retire to the hall of shells, to the beam of the burning oak. Cuthullin sits at Lego's lake, at the dark rolling of waters.
Night is around the hero.
His thousands spread on the heath. A hundred oaks burn in the midst. The feast of shells is smoking wide. Carril strikes the harp beneath a tree. His gray locks glitter in the beam.