Rain and wind have passed, the afternoon is clear and the clouds have broken. The hills are brightened by the changeable sun. The river descends reddish into the valley. Your murmur is sweet, river, but even sweeter is the voice that I hear. It is Alpin's voice who cries the dead. His head is bent by time and his eye is red from the tears. Alpin, sweet singer! Why do you stand alone on the silent hill? WHy do you moan like the wind that blows in the woods, like the wave on the distant shore?