On banks of Withywindle, Old Man Willow stood,
black-hearted tree spirit with evil ways.
Enchantment of his song whispering thru the wood,
drooping branches swaying in the breeze.
Old trees, gnarled and unmoving,
watchful eyes of ancient ones.
Silent shadows in sunlight, wavering
spirits, from Third Age of the Sun.
Their leaves rustling in the night,
a brooding menace, standing.
Prepared to help brave riders fight,
anger of the Hurons cause earth trembling.
Tho' often bringing dreams of quiet peace,
trees may be dangerous to man and beast.