Tinuviel with arms outstretched
And hair unfurled, streaming West,
Her face towards the iron throne
Where Morgoth sat and watched alone.
Small she was, and bright, and fair;
No fear, no dread was written there.
She danced a dance of drowsiness,
of heaviness, forgetfulness.
The whisper of her feet upon the stone,
The rustling of her garments, thrown
Like shadows vast upon the wall,
And spread o'er those within the hall.
Of sleep she sang, and deep repose,
Til Morgoth's eyes would fain be closed.
There his great head dropp-ed down,
There he loosed his iron crown.
Full upon the floor it fell
And echoed through the halls of hell.
Beren then with trembling hands
A Silmaril freed from iron bands.
Another he would gladly take
But such was not to be his fate.
His sword upon the iron broke,
The shard flew up, and Morgoth woke.