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.