When darkness stalks across the land 
And evil lurks on every hand; 
When withered are the amenthils, 
From every stream and every hill; 
When fire devours both fern and flower, 
Then look for help in your final hour! 

From ancient root shall spring a shoot, 
Of field and forest, fairest fruit; 
A torsil tree of tender years, 
On him shall rest all hopes and fears; 
His stock shall be of Elgathel; 
His sythan-ar, an amenthil. 

For he shall seek the silver tree, 
The sentinel beside the sea; 
Beyond, the tower and the tomb 
Await amidst the gathered gloom. 

Then toll the bell of Elgathel, 
Atop the silent sorcathel, 
And ride the winds of El-marin 
To win the Isle of Luralin . . . 

Copyright © 1998 by William D. Burt; The King of the Trees, WinePress Publishing, pg. 105.

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