Down they crept through darkened stairs
and halls and corridors unawares,
and silently their footsteps fall
until they reach the nethermost hall.
There on his throne sat Morgoth the Foe,
the king of torment, torture, and woe.
Countless orcs with dun attire
and demons of shadow, Balrogs of fire,
rung with hatred about their Lord’s seat.
But Lúthien suddenly stood to her feet;
aside Thuringwethil’s flesh was thrown,
the starlight within her grey eyes shone.
She danced and into a slumber deep
down they fell into dreamless sleep;
Balrog and orc, their weapons clanked,
onto the floor their wickedness sank.
The Silmarils brightly blazed in his crown
and weighed his head yet farther down
as Lúthien sang, the Enchantress wove
song of sleep, and Morgoth strove
not, but in dreamless slumber fell
prone upon the floors of hell.
Beren took Angrist, Curufin’s knife
which he had won in their earlier strife,
and like iron cleaves wood the knife cut down,
hewing a Silmaril from his crown.
Reverently Beren picked up the gem,
but he knew that this bride-prize wasn’t for him.
He held up the wonder of all Elven-land,
radiating, it shone in his mortal hand.
He looked with awe at one of the Three
that determined the fate of air, earth, and sea.
Entranced he fell under its spell,
its pulchritude too great to tell.