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
