  The wind wails overhead, With a grieving sore; And the little souls of the dead Beat on the door. Crying: Light and a fire, We have travelled far Over the plowed fields' mire. Will ye lift the bar? Would ye have us go all night On the windy ways, Who were strong men once in the light Of our own days? Ours are the fields ye plow, And ye sow our wheat: Let us stretch our hands to the glow Of the warm, red peat. |
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