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 the 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 here the shadows lie
deep upon my heavy heart,
and 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 worldI sit;
and know not where you lie!
O master dear, will you not hear
my voice before we die?

Submitted by LittlePippin