Come! my dreaming brothers!

Come! my dreaming sisters!

The corpse-mounted companies of the dead comb the heaths and valleys!

Leave to your windows,

Bind loose your haystacks,

And sing!

Here we go round! Here we go round!

The white-cauled riders harry the fields of the sky!

Take down the cracked, clay jars secreted in desiccant crannies

Of high shelves and back corners,

And sing!

Ashes, ashes!

The hoary wolves of winter hunt again!

Take up your cowl-staves and cleft sticks,

Bare your arms, your thighs, your chests,

And sing!

Early in the morning!