Golden Horn – Poem

The clouds are bustling

The night blast rustling,

Sighs are breaking

From Grave-hills quaking,

The regions were under


Of the mighty and the daring,

The ghosts there muster

Stains of war bearing,

In their eye star luster.

Ye who blind are straying,

And Preying,

Shall an ag’d relic meet,

Which shall come and shall fleet,

Its red sides golden,

The stamp displaying

Of the time most olden

That shall give ye a notion

To hold in devotion

Our gift, is your duty!

A maiden, of beauty

Most rare.

Shall find the token!

An old translated verse from the Danish Poet Adam Gottlob Oehlenschläger. I don’t know much about him or the verse, but I aim to find out. This was epic!

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