Land of the Dead

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