On a pale morning of gray glory,
I espied white sails from afar,
Slipping from their tight moorings;
The white shadow of fallen stars.
She bore away the first of kings,
Upon her wintry canvas wings.
Men cenuva f‡n' cirya
mŽtima hrestallo c'ra,
i fairi nŽc'
ringa sœmaryass'
ve maiwi yaimi'?
Voices of forgotten yore
Have faded as the summer days.
They depart forever from this shore,
Their ships passing from havens gray.
In this land their songs have died,
Their time ebbing with the tide.
Man tiruva f‡na cirya,
wilwarin wilwa,
'ar-celumessen
r‡mainen elvi'
'ar falastala,
winga hl‡pula
r‡mar sis'lala,
c‡l' fif'rula?
No man's eyes shall perceive
The fleeting ships of ages past.
The Elves gone with the falling leaves,
These days have been their last.