by J.R.R. Tolkien
I sit upon the stones alone;
the fire is burning red.
the tower is tall, the mountains dark;
all living things are dead.
In western lands the sun may shine,
there flower and tree in spring
is opening, is blossoming;
and there the finches sing
But here I sit alone and think
of days when grass was green;
and earth was brown, and I was young;
they might have never been
For they are past, for ever lost,
and buried here I lie.
and deep beneath the shadows sink,
where hope and daylight die.
But still I sit and think of you;
I see you far away
Walking down the homely roads
on a bright and windy day.
It was merry then when I could run
to answer to your call,
could hear your voice or take your hand;
but now the night must fall.
And now beyond the world I sit,
and know not where you lie!
O master dear, will you not hear
my voice before we die?
* * * *
I am going now. Goodbye. *g*