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J R R Tolkien - The Flight Of The Noldoli From Valinor
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A! the Trees of Light,     tall and shapely 
gold and silver,     more glorious than the sun,
than the moon more magical,     o`er the meads of the Gods
their fragrant frith     and flowerladen
gardens gleaming,     once gladly shone.
In death they are darkened,     they drop their leaves
from blackened branches    bled by Morgoth
and Ungoliant the grim     the Gloomweaver
In spider`s form     despair and shadow
a shuddering fear     and shapless night
she weaves in a web     of winding venom
that is black and breathless.     Their branches fail,
Mirk goes marching,     mists of blackness,
through the halls of the Mighty     hushed and empty,
the gates of the Gods     are in gloom mantled.

Lo! the Elves murmur     mourning in anguish,
but no more shall be kindled     the mirth of Côr
in the winding ways     of their walled city,
towercrownëd Tûn,     whose twinkling lamps
are drowned in darkness.     The dim fingers
of fog come floating      from the formless waste
and sunless seas.     The sound of horns,
of horses` hooves      hastening wildly
in hopeless hunt,     they hear afar,
where the Gods in wrath     those guilty ones
through mournful shadow,     now mounting as a tide
o`er the Blissful Realm,     in blind dismay
pursue unceasing.     The city of the Elves
is thickly thronged.     On threadlike stairs
carven of crystal     countless torches
stare and twinkle,     stain the twilight
and gleaming balusters     of green beryl.
A vague rumour     of rushing voices,
as myriads mount     the marble paths,
there fills and troubles    those fair places
wide ways of Tûn    and walls of pearl.

Of the Three Kindreds     to that clamorous throng
are none but the Gnomes     in numbers drawn.
The Elves of Ing    to the ancient halls
and starry gardens     that stand and gleam
upon Timbrenting     towering mountain
that day had climbed     to the cloudy-domed
mansions of Manwë     for mirth and song.
There Bredhil the Blessed     the bluemantled,
the Lady of the heights     as lovely as the snow
in lights gleaming     of the legions of the stars,
the cold immortal     Queen of mountains,
too fair and terrible     too far and high
for mortal eyes,     in  Manwë`s  court
sat silently     as the sang to her.

The Foam-riders,     folk of waters,
Elves of the endless     echoing beaches,
of the bays and grottoes     and the blue lagoons,
of silver sands     sown with moonlit,
starlit, sunlit,     stones of crystal,
paleburning gems     pearls and opals,
on their shining shingle,    where now shadows groping
clutched their laughter,     quenched in mourning
their mirth and wonder,     in amaze wandered
under cliffs grown cold     calling dimly,
or in shrouded ships     shuddering waited
for the light no more     should be lit for ever.

But the Gnomes were numbered     by name and kin,
marshalled and ordered     in the mighty square
upon the crown of Côr.     There cried aloud
the fierce son of Finn.    Flaming torches
he held and whirled     in his hands aloft,
those hands whose craft     the hidden secret
knew, that none     Gnome or mortal
hath matched or mastered     in magic or in skill.
`Lo! slain is my sire     by the sword of fiends,
his death he has drunk     at the doors of his hall
and deep fastness,     where darkly hidden
the Three were guarded,     the things unmatched
that Gnome and Elf     and the Nine Valar
recarve or rekindle     by craft or magic,
not Fëanor Finn`s son     who fashioned them or yore --
the light is lost    whence he lit them first,
the fate of Faërie     hath found its hour

Thus the witless wisdom     its reward hath earned 
of the Gods` jealousy,    who guard us here
to serve them, sing to them     in our sweet cages,
to contrive them gems     and jewelled trinkets,
their leisure to please      with our loveliness,
while they waste and squander     work of ages,
nor can Morgoth master     in their mansions sitting
at countless councils.     Now come ye all,
who have courage and hope!     My call harken
to flight, to freedom     in far places!
The woods of the world     whise wide mansions
yet in darkness dream     drowned in slumber,
the pathless plains     and perilous shores
no moon yet shines on      nor mounting dawn
in dew and daylight     hath drenched for ever,
far better were these     for bold footsteps
than gardens of the Gods     gloom-encircled
with idleness filled     and empty days.
Yea! though the light lit them     and the loveliness
beyond heart`s desire     that hath held us slaves
here long and long.     But that light is dead.
Our gems are gone,     our jewels ravished;
and the Three, my Three,     thrice-enchanted
globes of crystal     by gleam undying
illumined, lit     by living splendour
and all hues` essence,     their eager flame --
Morgoth has them     in his monstrous hold
my Silmarils.     I swear here oaths,
unbreakable bonds     to bind me ever,
by Timbrenting     and the timeless halls
of Bredhil the Blessed     that abides thereon --
may she hear and heed --     to hunt endlessly
unwearying unwavering     through world and sea,
through leaguered lands,     lonely mountains,
over fens and forest     and the fearful snows,
till I find those fair ones,     where the fate is hid
of the folk of Elfland     and their fortune locked,
where alone now lies     that light divine.`

Then his sons beside him,     the seven kinsmen,
crafty Curufin,      Celegorm the fair,
Damrod and Díriel     and dark Cranthir,
Maglor the mighty,     and Maidros tall
(the eldest, whose ardour     yet more eager burnt
than his father`s flame,     than Fëanor`s wrath;
him fate awaited     with fell purpose),
these leapt with laughter     their lord beside,
with linkëd hands     there lightly took
the oath unbreakable;     blood thereafter
it spilled like a sea     and spent the swords
of endless armies,     nor hath ended yet:

`Be he friend or foe     or foul offspring
of Morgoth Bauglir,     be he mortal dark
that in after days     on earth shall dwell,
shall no law or love     nor league of Gods,
no might nor mercy,     not moveless fate,
defend him for ever     from the fierce vengeance
of the sons of Fëanor,     whoso seize or steal
or finding keep     the fair enchanted
globes of crystal     whose glory dies not,
the Silmarils.     We have sworn for ever!`

Then a mighty murmuring      was moved abroad
and the harkening host     hailed them roaring:
`Let us go! yea go     from the Gods for ever
on Morgoth`s trail     o`er the mountains of the world
to vengeance and victory!     Your vows are ours!
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