For passing where the days, my friend

and doomed the nights,

when flitting ghostmoths danced

round tapers in the moveless air.



And doomed already were,

the radiant dawns,

the odour and the noise of meads

and all about is night.



One moment now may give us more

than fifty years of reason,

our minds shall drink of every pore

the spirit of the season



To her fair works did nature link

the human souls that through me ran

and much it grieved my heart to think

what I can make of man.



You look around on Middle-Earth

as if she for no purpose bore you,

as if you were her first-born birth,

and none had lived before you.



I sit upon this old grey stone,

and dream my time away.