[HerenIstarion]

songs and such

sounds funny [img]smilies/smile.gif[/img]

well. some samples:

Ere a week was outworn his wounds were cured,
but his heart's heaviness those hands of snow
nor soothed nor softened, and sorrow-laden
he fared to the forest. No fellows sought he
in his hopeless hazard, but in haste alone
he followed the feet of the foes of Elfland,
the dread daring, and the dire anguish,
that held the hearts of Hithlum's men
and Doriath's doughtiest in a dream of fear.
Unmatched among Men, or magic-wielding
Elves, or hunters of the Orc-kindred,
or beasts of prey for blood pining,
was his craft and cunning, that cold and dead
an unseen slot could scent o'er stone,
foot-prints could find on forest pathways
that lightly on the leaves were laid in moons
long waned, and washed by windy rains.
The grim Glamhoth's goblin armies
go cunning-footed, but his craft failed not
to tread their trail, till the lands were darkened,
and the light was lost in lands unknown.
Never-dawning night was netted clinging
in the black branches of the beetling trees;
oppressed by pungent pinewood's odours,
and drowsed with dreams as the darkness thickened,
he strayed steerless. The stars were hid,
and the moon mantled. There magic foundered
in the gathering glooms, there goblins even
(whose deep eyes drill the darkest shadows)
bewildered wandered, who the way forsook
to grope in the glades, there greyly loomed
of girth unguessed in growth of ages
the topless trunks of trees enchanted.
That fathomless fold by folk of Elfland
is Taur-na-Fuin, the Trackless Forest
of Deadly Nightshade, dreadly named.

that above is 'such'

now for the song:

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 branches 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

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