POW þýðir Prisoner of War…<br><br><i>Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn
that was blowing?
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair
flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire
glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn
growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in
the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into
shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?
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