Caradhras

When winter winds are piercing chill

and through the hawthorn blows the gale

with solemn feet i tread the peak

that overbrows the mountains vale

Redhorn; my doom!

Where twisted round the barren oak

the winter vine in beauty clung

and howling winds the stillness broke

the crystal icicle is hung

Redhorn; my doom!

But still wild music is abroad

pale, desert woods! within your crowd

and gathering winds, in hoarse accord

amid the vocal reeds pipe loud

High upon the land

on the highest (mountain) peak i hear

(the echoes of) the world profound.