Where forest stream went through the wood 
And silent all the stens 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, [bad word] forth and high 
Shadows at dead end of night and mirrored in the skies 

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