In western lands beneath the Sun
     the flowers may rise in Spring,
the trees may bud, the waters run,
     the merry finches sing.
Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night
     and swaying beeches bear
the Elven-stars as jewels white
     amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey's end I lie
     in darkness buried deep,
beyond all towers strong and high,
     beyond all mountains steep,
above all shadows rides the Sun
     and Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
     nor bid the Stars farewell.