Through the grassy Wilderland
A flowing river wound its way
Like it could see its destination
Though the Sea was far away.

Upon the bosom of the river
Half-full of water, but still afloat
Floating quickly with the currents
There was a carven Elven-boat.

Not far away, on the shore,
A young man sat, a beard he had
He saw the boat, and leapt for it
But then his heart ceased to be glad.

For in the boat a warrior lay,
About his waist a belt of gold
A shattered sword was on his breast
But his fair face was icy cold.

"Boromir! How comest thou?"
Cried the man, with deep dismay
He touched a moment the Elven prow
But then the boat flowed away.

The man stared after it with sadness
His tears of sorrow freely flowed
Twas like a dream, but with no waking
Boromir had taken the final road.