The new green glints through leaves of gold.
I know our day is almost come
To leave the wood, to leave the fold,
And seek the havens and the foam
Of Mithlond's surf. Ai, Lórien,
Relinquishing your golden heart
Feels like the ache of Tilion
From Arien ever kept apart.
I dream of spring, I dream of fall.
The mortal seasons in my eyes
Arise and fade, the gleaming hall
Of mallorns bright, the winter skies,
Pale as eggshell, spanning o'er
White-barked trees in nakedness
At Cerin Amroth standing fair,
And star-dome sparkling numberless.
The mortal pulse of Ennorath
Expressed in every living thing
That strides from birth to death, a path
Set forth in cycles: this we sing
And praise, who do not share their fate.
Yet now 'tis time to up and go
And seek Aman, where "time" and "late"
Mean nothing. Tell me, doth the snow
Or spring's release, or summer's heat
Exist there? Doth the autumn blow
Old green from leaves, gently unseat
The apple from the bough? Will I
Still hear the drum of earth's heartbeat
Or pace beneath unchanging sky?