They ride, they ride, all on astride
ghostly steeds, side by side,
out from the hollow hill they come;
no echoing horns, no beating drum.
in silence march they!
The line, the line, in perfect time,
bold warriors and their ladies, fine;
with gilded helm and silver spear,
their faces grim without a fear
except of breaking day.
They pass, they pass, through shadowed grass,
the column on their silent task;
What ancient battle seeking,
Or a crowning, queen or king,
their destination?
So bright, so bright; into the night
the column passes out of sight
and all is quiet there, and then
the forest creatures sound again
their ululation.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem