The White Tree once more is to blossom
But bare is the heart of love bereft.
Pale the face I once had cherished
Cold the lips I once had pressed.
Daughter of the West am I –
Of elf and men and Númenor.
Did my forefathers see such a sight?
Did their daughters weep before?
Atop the tower I gazed afar
And saw the fields scarred with death
I saw the eagles flying high
As the Wind drew in its breath.
Wreathed in flowers gold I wander
Decked in garb of victory’s mirth;
But to me the winter lingers —
Spring’s not come until Sun’s birth.