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 maybe 'tis cloudless night and swaying beeches bear
the evening stars as jewels white amid their branching hair.
Though here at journey's end I lie, In darkness buried deep,
beyond all towers strong and 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.