John Ronald Reuel Tolkien. The Lord Of The Rings (№ 135611)

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?
Where a helmet and mail, where his visage proud?
Where is the sweet harp and the fire burning high?
Where Mature spring and summer, and Golden Niva?
Died down the rain on the mountains, like wind in the meadow,
The days have gone down in the sunset shadows over the hills.
With the fire danced joy, and with the smoke drove off the mountain
And irrevocable Time will not come back to us from overseas...