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Then the deadened sound sweeps landward, and the hearts of the field-folk fail,
And they say: Is there death in the Burg, that thence goeth the cry and the wail?
Lo, lo, the feast-hall's windows! blood-red through the dark they shine:
Why is weeping the song of the Niblungs, and blood the warrior's wine?

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But therein are the torches tossing, and the shields of men upborne,
And the death-blades yet unbloodied cast up 'twixt bowl and horn,
And all rest of heart is departed as men speak of the mirk-wood's ways,
And the fame of outland countries, and the green sea's troublous days.