A small little boy, no more than four,
Thoughtful, quiet, called Estel,
Crept to my lap from on the floor,
In peaceful, elven, Rivendell.
Keenly shone those tiny eyes
Like kindled stars, or fire wild;
A son of Kings, yet doomed to die
Was Isildur’s heir, a little child.
Upon my breast he laid his head;
I cradled him in soft moonlight.
I set him down within his bed,
To dream in peace throughout the night.
Yet still he woke and made a cry,
And stretched his small arms out to me.
“How if I sing a lullaby?”
I asked him soft and patiently.
I sang of stars with silver light,
And forests that are ever green.
I sang of caverns, glistening bright,
And distant shores I’d never seen.
Of maidens fair I told his tales;
Of Luthien and Nimrodel.
I sang of gret Earndil’s sails;
I sang of heroes to Estel.
At last he lied in peaceful sleep,
And there he stayed until bright dawn.
How dear those memories do I keep!
For those far years are now long gone.
Endless are the years we elves bear;
Before me now a King does lie.
Asleep in peace, Estel now rests there,
No more to hear my lullaby.