Then the magic drifted from me and that music loosed its bands–
Far, far-off, conches calling–lo! I stood in the sweet lands,
And the meadows were about me where the weeping willows grew,
Where the long grass stirred beside me, and my feet were drenched with dew.
Only the reeds were rustling, but a mist lay on the streams
Like a sea-roke drawn far inland, like a shred of salt sea-dreams.
‘Twas in the Land of Willows that I heard th’unfathomed breath
Of the Horns of Ylmir calling–and shall hear them till my death.