From the heathenish sightless gods,
From the far-away woods and crypts,
From the howling pipes and horns,
From the wise and cunning lords,
From their poisoned songs and cups,
Rotten leaves and muddy waters,
In the deep of the Wilderland swamps…
Where before every night it rise,
The flaming Sunset of unseen force,
Disappearing in scarlet skies,
Flocks of swans are moving forth.
We are following their ways,
Tramping far from the paths and roads,
To the land where the prince of the West
Spread his vast unearthly domes.
If we had an eagle's wings,
We would get to this land in a flight,
Had we strength of the wiry deers,
By a leap we would cross the sky.
Western winds are burning with cold,
Like a diamond is sparkling ice,
Who is named the Father of Gods,
Is infinitely far from us.