Aragorn the Dunadan
Lydwina Marie
Upon the pinnacle of stone
he stood on high; he was alone
save for the whisp'ring wind above,
flying to the far sea he loved.
His raven hair was blown aloft
before the coming foe was crossed
with evil cries, and cunning leers,
against the steadfast Elven spears.
Far in the North a strong wind blew,
the Elf-host came; on wings they flew
to Gondor's aid, though doubtful they
were of victory that dark day.
His fie'ry keen eyes pierced the clouds
that over moon and stars were shrouds.
His eye could see the flaming land
of Mordor, place of Sauron's hand.
"Arwen! Beloved, the most fair,
my Lúthien, with raven hair!"
His cry was borne upon the air
to lands far distant that were fair.
"Aragorn!" her sweet voice flew back,
"Your courage is not what you lack.
Confidence, in this evil times,
would serve you more than faithless mimes."
High in the sky, one star still shone –
Elbereth, on the gloaming lawn
of Valinor, the Elven home,
wherein fair Elves forever roam.
Arwen looked upon this star,
close it seemed, yet it was far:
"Ilúvatar, I pray that you
would guard him in what he's to do."
Upon the pinnacle of stone,
still he stood; he was alone,
while through the dusk the night breeze blew
o'er Aragorn, the King anew.