Didst thou desire this?
Among these faded boughs
And live in mortal sunlight drear,
As now pass away the nights, the days, the year.
Didst not thy heart once desie the lands
That in the West do lie,
An elven home, away from man's
Built by thy kinfolk's hands.
Does not thy love wish to spare thee thy life
And wish thee sail away,
And have thee spared the mortal strife
As thee stand above this poised knife?
And if thy light did wither, and thy sprit fade,
Would thee regret the price
That thee for thy love paid?