The sleeping-waking forest waits beneath the meager warm-cold sun,
Remembered far and older than men’s kingdoms, ancient aged ones
Whose infant-sapling growing days are long-off tales of sapping-runs.
The ancient trees extend their limbs in creaking-whisper secrecy
As rustle-leaf and quiver-root absorb slow thoughts that lie unseen
For slowly-thinking always-steady ways shudder with taut unease
Under the mossy-boughs the air lies thick-still, never harboring
The enemy that bears an axe within their bounds, the trembling
Orc-axe-cutting, burning-hacking they never stop remembering.
Green-deep, thick-branch now they arise, arouse, raise up their leafed-crowns
To stir their stiffened bark-clad trunks, their fiery heart-sparks casting down
Their apathy and treeish-ways. Ents’ deeping-eyes aglow come round,
Clear-watching all their wayward trees as root-filled earth goes tumbling
In clods beneath their wrathful boughs, green-valley filled with rumbling
Of marching, marching towards the foe whose walls will soon be crumbling.
Hoom hum ba-room hum-a hoom-hum a hoom-hum: stone and rock will crack.
In the raging of Ents neglected long, rubble they shall not lack,
Boom hum boom hum water and wood: the trees are surely striking back.

- Primula