For passing where the days, my friend
   and doomed the nights,
   when flitting ghostmoths danced
   round tapers in the moveless air.
  
   And doomed already were,
   the radiant dawns,
   the odour and the noise of meads
   and all about is night.
  
   One moment now may give us more
   than fifty years of reason,
   our minds shall drink of every pore
   the spirit of the season
  
   To her fair works did nature link
   the human souls that through me ran
   and much it grieved my heart to think
   what I can make of man.
  
   You look around on Middle-Earth
   as if she for no purpose bore you,
   as if you were her first-born birth,
   and none had lived before you.
  
   I sit upon this old grey stone,
   and dream my time away.