Arise! Arise!
Hunting hounds! Obey your master’s call.
The sprouting life dwarfs the viking halls.
Ever did a man forged Camelot
Hold a greater grace in God’s thought?
Grim faced hunter, string your bow, knock your arrow!
The riverswood cares for the wary doe,
shielding summer’s sun from its foe.
Hunter halts; days darkness mutes the bow.
Autumnal leaves accent the cool air
betraying his steps to warn the hare.
Now, the hunting horn’s final sounds
herald the hawks to the ground.
Walk quickly, quietly intruder.
Wander not, winter traveler.
The forest’s allure; the wind’s sigh
seduces more sweetly than the Lorelei.
Within my castle, he sits surrounded by stony walls.
Far away, his heart still hears; the riverswood calls.
Wind Weaving Stories 