A canopy of leaves dapples the golden
floor of Lothlórien with sun and shade.
A company of waiflike elven figures
move slowly westward, as they all are bade.
They sing in sorrow as they carry on into the mists.
The bright sky dims; nearly the only noises
are those of running water and elf-song.
The elves wear ash-grey garments as a symbol
of fading from where they do not belong.
And the cool wood-breezes mourn them, knowing they cannot resist.

In Rivendell’s fair valley, there are others
who must vacate the lands they came to love;
this is their home no more, they must remember
as they set out, with guiding stars above.
The white shores call to all of them, and never shall they cease.
Toward the setting sun they journey ever,
with heavy hearts, for all that they will lose.
Across the hills and fields to the Grey Havens
the elves approach this fate they did not choose.
And the warm plain-breezes soothe them, murmuring of waiting peace.

Far to the West, more Eldar stand awaiting
the presence of their sundered kith and kin.
They gather on the shores, all hearts rejoicing
as white sails tell of vessels speeding in.
A flock of swans with silver wings come flying on the foam.
A song is raised to heaven as the sailors
drink in the blessed sight of Valinor;
this is what they were destined to inherit–
they shall be plagued by shadows nevermore.
And the sweet sea-breezes hail them, welcoming the Firstborn home.