Where forest stream went through the wood
And silent all the stems 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 end of night and mirrored in the sky

Far far away beyond might of day
And there lay the land of the dead of mortal cold decay

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