The Lay of the Noldor
May desperate pleas like white-winged birds fly far across the Sea,
And my its words, a bitter dirge, find its way to thee.
Oh Star Queen, Varda, Elbereth, so high above the world,
Oh maker of the lofty halls where heaven’s light unfurled,
That in mourning raiment grey, our voices reach you there,
O’er endless water, mist and foam, to Valinor the fair,
The home forsaken long ago in unforgiven wrath,
That has filled us with a longing for all the Ages passed.
When there was Light still in the West, where Yavanna’s labors grew,
The Silver and the Golden sprung forth their scared dew.
When untainted Elven voices had sorrow yet to sing,
Upon Mount Taniquetil sat Manwe, Arda’s king.
With unclouded sight above the sky, his heralds ever sent,
No tidings of the evil made before the world was wrent.
For Morgoth sat in darkness, bound by Aule’s chain,
And left Elvenhome in blissful peace, until the Darkened Day.
Not yet were Jewels of Light conceived within their maker’s thought,
And the Silmarils’ doomed beauty was never vainly wrought.
Return us to those perfect days when tears were never shed,
For ill-sought deeds of glory and in remembrance of the dead.
We lament beside the weeping shore for our lost paradise,
And wait till all is silenced with no grieving Elven eyes.