Where will their way come to an end?
When freezing in the ice and snow
Or dying in a desert land?
They flow on in ceaseless streaming
Since the beginning of the times
By sandy banks, where maids are swimming
And quiet laugh in air flies.
Where willows bent above the water,
Where reed does whisper with the wind,
Where flocks of fearful birds are floating
In pools as clear as a spring.
O Seven Rivers of Ossiriand!
In a placid morning's bluish light
You keep on running, nearer and nearer
To surging waves of a noisy tide.
Straight to the Sea, which brings the visions
Of other times and other things,
A moan of pain… But Darkness weakens
Before this pure and joyful brink.