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In spring a company of folk,
The fair-haired ones of elder days,
Passed South of Woodhall, silver-clad
And faded West to the ocean's haze.
We spoke to them, my gam and I
Atop the Yale-Height's stony head.
For, passing through the orchards, we
Heard what their distant voices said.
They called to us across the trees:
"Come, little folk! Do not have fear!"
Their laughter showed their good intent,
To speak with us if we would hear.
"It has been long," they said to me,
"Since tidings from the Shire come.
We ask you, tell if hope and peace
remain here underneath the sun?"
We told them of the peaceful brook,
The pleasant wind, the friendly beast.
"'Tis good," they said, "For us to hear
That hope still lives in fair lands East"
Come eventide the fair-folk bade
farewell to Yale-height, gam and me.
Fast away and West they went
to take the straight-road o'er the sea.
I know not whence the elves did go,
I know no straight path to the West
But though the ancient ones depart,
Our folk remain where we love best.
