Where now the horse and the rider?

Where is the horn that was blowing?

Where is the helm and the hauberk,

and the bright hair flowing?

 

Where is the hand on the harpstring,

and the red fire glowing?

Where is the spring and the harvest

and the tall corn growing?

 

They have passed like rain on the mountain,

like a wind in the meadow;

The days have gone down in the West

behind the hills into shadow.

 

Who shall gather the smoke

of the dead wood burning,

Or behold the flowing years

from the Sea returning?