Where forest stream went through the wood and silent all the stens there stood of tall trees, moveless, hanging dark with mottled shadows on their bark as faint as deepest sleeper's breath an echo came as cold as death..
Long are the paths, of shadow made where no foot's print is ever laid. No moon is there, no voice, no sound of beating heart; a sigh profound
once in each age as each age dies alone is heard. Far, far it lies the Land of Waiting where the Dead sit, in their thought's shadow, by no moon lit.
Upon the plain, there rushed forth and high...
Shadows at the dead of night and mirrored in the skies
Far far away beyond might of day...
And there lay the land of dead of mortal cold decay.

Summoning.