In the midst of ancient trees where vines wind up the thick, rough trunks, where sleep the leaf and seed, there wend the fallen nuns and monks. The branches' whispered blessing, the waft of river, sigh of sky, the royalty borne by wind are signs; the death of death is nigh. Lain on the high-held bier, good Robin's still, too still for sleeping. Dark bearers near the glen; the women lead intoning, weeping...