In western lands beneath the Sun the flowers may rise in Spring, the trees may bud, the waters run, the merry finches sing. Or there may be 'tis cloudless night and swaying beeches bear the Elven-stars as jemels white amid their branching hair.
Though here at journey's end I lie in darkness buried deep, beyond all towers strong or high, beyond all mountains steep, above all shadows rides the Sun and Stars forever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell.