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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, there rushed forth and high

Shadows at dead 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