Of Finrod and Bëor by losselen  

Canto III: Of Finrod's song of Valinor

III.

Of Finrod's song of Valinor

A song he sang of Eldamar,    

of Sunless years in Valinor,

and mead that flowed in halls afar

of music falling evermore,

of golden rains on golden eaves

that fell on grasses slumberless

in silver glades where long the leaves

grew under starlights numberless.

He sang of branching streets of white

beneath a roof of woven green

entwined in beechen boughs; and light

of Mindon Eldaliéva keen

that wavered high, to and fro,

from towering spire onto the Bay,

and beneath there bathed in silver glow

in ageless year and ageless days

like living marble there still grew,

a White Tree, Galathilion.

And silver leaves and crystal dews

fell in Elven-Tirion.

He sang of Calacirya’s reach

athwart the everlasting walls

above the pearls on sparkling beach

above the shining Tirion-halls;

and clouds about the snowy knees

of Taniquetil sheer and far;

and mist upon the dusky wreaths

of bright and scarlet Fumellar

in Lórien, in meadow-beds

where singing flocked the nightingale

on drooping boughs of yews, and fed

the falling rains to runnels pale;

and havens by the roaring Sea

where argent flew the wings of mew

and shadows on the eastern lee

of Túna when there still yet grew

the ever-changing Trees, of gold

and silver were their branching boughs

in Valmar, in the days of old,

ere spoken were the dooméd vows,

when countless fell the Elven-years

that passed before the Sun or Moon

were seen above the Shadowmere

in the first mortal night and noon.

And as if caught a tolling bell

in sounding air within his song,

as if a bird call, as if a spell,

as if the leagues were not so long

from the pearly shoals of Elvenhome

to the darkling stones of Hither-lands;

a sudden love in the heart did roam

straining to hear from distant strands

the piercing cry of unknown bird

echoing in jeweléd cities far

as few Men would have ever heard,

in Valinor, where no mortals are.

So listening fast did Bëor wake

arisen from these dreaming chords,

and wonder of them stirred as ache

as image cleaved from Elven words.

And in that hour did Men behold

Finrod the fairest Elven-lord

his flaxen hair a gleam of gold,

a beryl set upon his sword.

And slow he plucked the roughmade string

its music in his Elven-hands

more fair than birds in sudden spring

sing in the woods of Eastern lands.

And beauty they had never seen

as like which shone upon his glance,

and ageless grace was in his mien

that held their hearts in love entranced.

For in his face still shone the Trees

that flowered once in Valinor,

with golden crown and silver wreath

and likes of they will never more

in all of Arda again be known

No more the singing Laurelin

her blooms of red like embers thrown

from golden branches flamed within;

and Telperion the everwhite    

on slender limbs his leaves of green

will dance no more with fain delight

and never wave in breezes keen,

bestirred from high by blessed hands    

from high above in Valinor,

down and east to Outer Lands

across the Shadow Seas. No more

their shining boles, their silver, gold,

a rain of dews like falling stars

that fell before the world was old

before the darkening, ere the mar.

Not til the mending of the world

the utter end in ages long

shall they rebloom in Music furled

as some still sing in Elven song.