No stars shall in my grace astound,
As I lay me here, upon this mound,
Weeping, crying, stars above,
Take me now beside my love.
The trees are silent, in their mood,
The forest weary, dreams be hewed
By the knife of mortal death,
Biter, tastless, strangled breath.
Nothing harkens, passed the eve,
I have lived, and I believed,
I saw the stars pass in the dawn,
My hope is gone, and I shall mourn.
The weary leaves assend my throne,
Lain upon the hiss, alone,
“Estel! Estel!” my lips do cry,
As I follow him, here to die.