published in The Lays of Beleriand, History of Middle Earth v. 3
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 shapeless night
she weaves in a web of winding venom
that is black and breathless. Their branched fail,
the light and laughter of their leaves are quenched.
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 {= Tirion}
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 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 vauge 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.
...
The Foam-riders, folk of waters
Elves of the endless echoing beaches,
of the bays and grottos 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.
