To Grima
Man of Rohan, bowed in sorrow;
Lift thy tired eyes to me!
Weep no more that thy beloved Eowyn is gone from thee!
Am I not as fair as pale Spring morn?
But so, without the Winter's chill.
Cling to me now, wearied soul.
My love be soft and still.
Oh let me soothe the troubles,
Let me brighten time that passes!
That no care or pain be on thy heart,
And you may have my sweet caresses!