Сборники Художественной, Технической, Справочной, Английской, Нормативной, Исторической, и др. литературы.

                 All songs from "Fellowship of the Ring" by Tolkien J.

            Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,
             Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of Stone,
            Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,
             One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne
            In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.
             One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
             One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them
            In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie.

                     The Road goes ever on and on
                      Down from the door where it began.
                     Now far ahead the Road has gone,
                      And I must follow, if I can,
                     Pursuing it with weary feet,
                      Until it joins some larger way
                     Where many paths and errands meet.
                      And whither then? I cannot say.

                   Upon the hearth the fire is red,
                   Beneath the roof there is a bed;
                   But not yet weary are our feet,
                   Still round the corner we may meet
                   A sudden tree or standing stone
                   That none have seen but we alone.

                    Tree and flower and leaf and grass,
                    Let them pass! Let them pass!
                    Hill and water under sky,
                    Pass them by! Pass them by!

                   Still round the corner there may wait
                   A new road or a secret gate,
                   And though we pass them by today,
                   Tomorrow we may come this way
                   And take the hidden paths that run
                   Towards the Moon or to the Sun.

                    Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,
                    Let them go! Let them go!
                    Sand and stone and pool and dell,
                    Fare you well! Fare you well!

                   Home is behind, the world ahead,
                   And there are many paths to tread
                   Through shadows to the edge of night,
                   Until the stars are all alight.
                   Then world behind and home ahead,
                   We'll wander back to home and bed.

                    Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,
                    Away shall fade! Away shall fade!
                    Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,
                    And then to bed! and then to bed!

               Snow-white! Snow-white! O Lady clear!
                O Queen beyond the Western Seas!
               O Light to us that wander here
                Amid the world of woven trees!

               Gilthoniel! O Elbereth!
                Clear are thy eyes and bright thy breath!
               Snow-white! Snow-white! We sing to thee
                In a far land beyond the Sea.

               O stars that in the Sunless Year
                With shining hang by her were sown,
               In windy fields now bright and clear
                We see your silver blossom blown!

               O Elbereth! Giltoniel!
                We still remember, we who dwell
               In this far land beneath the trees,
                Thy starlight on the Western Seas.

                Ho! Ho! Ho! to the bottle I go
                to heal my heart and drown my woe.
                Rain may fall and wind may blow,
                And many miles be still to go,
                But under a tall tree I will lie,
                And let the clouds go sailing by.

                Sing hey! for the bath at close of day
                That washes the weary mud away!
                A loon is he that will not sing:
                O! Water Hot is a noble thing!

                O! Sweet is the sound of falling rain,
                and the brook that leaps from hill to plain;
                but better that rain or rippling streams
                is Water Hot that smokes and steams.

                O! Water cold we may pour at need
                down a thirsty throat and be glad indeed;
                but better is Beer, if drink we lack,
                and Water Hot poured down the back.

                O! Water is fair that leaps on high
                in a fountain white beneath the sky;
                but never did fountain sound so sweet
                as splashing Hot Water with my feet!

                  Farewell we call to hearth and hall!
                  Though wind may blow and rain may fall,
                  We must away ere break of day
                  Far over wood and mountain tall.

                  To Rivendell, where Elves yet dwell
                  In glades beneath the misty fell,
                  Through moor and waste we ride in haste,
                  And whither then we cannot tell.

                  With foes ahead, behind us dread,
                  Beneath the sky shall be our bed,
                  Until at last our toil be passed,
                  Our journey done, our errand sped.

                  We must away! We must away!
                  We ride before the break of day!

                 O! Wanderers in the shadowed land
                 despair not! For though dark they stand,
                 al woods there be must end at last,
                 and see the open sun go past:
                 the setting sun, the rising sun,
                 the day's end, or the day begun.
                 For east or west all woods must fail...

            Hey dol! merry dol! ring a dong dillo!
            Ring a dong! hop along! fal lal the willow!
            Tom Bom, jolly Tom, Tom Bombadillo!

            Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! My darling!
            Light goes the weather-wind and the feathered starling.
            Down along  under Hill, shining in the sunlight,
            Waiting on the doorstep for the cold starlight,
            There my pretty lady is, River-woman's daughter,
            Slender as the willow-wand, clearer than the water.
            Old Tom Bombadil water-lilies bringing
            Comes hopping home again. Can you hear him singing?
            Hey! Come merry dol! derry dol! and merry-o,
            Goldberry, Goldberry, merry yellow berry-o!
            Poor old Willow-man, you tuck your roots away!
            Tom's in a hurry now. Evening will follow day.
            Tom's going home again water-lilies bringing.
            Hey! come merry dol! Can you hear me singing?

             Hop along, my little friends, up the Withywindle!
             Tom's going on ahead candles for to kindle.
             Down west sinks the Sun: soon you will be groping.
             When the night-shadows fall, then the door will open;
             Out of the window-panes light will twinkle yellow.
             Fear no alder black! Heed no hoary willow!
             Fear neither root no bough! Tom goes on before you.
             Hey now! merry dol! We'll be waiting for you!

             Hey! Come derry dol! Hop alone, my hearties!
             Hobbits! Ponies all! We are fond of parties.
             Now let the fun begin! Let us sing together!

             Now let the song begin! Let us sing together
             Of sun, stars, moon and mist, rain and cloudy weather,
             Light on the budding leaf, dew on the feather,
             Wind on the open hill, bells on the heather,
             Reeds by the shady pool, lilies on he water:
             Old Tom Bombadil and the River-daughter!

           O slender as a willow-wand! O clearer than clear water!
           O reed by the living pool! Fair river-daughter!
           O spring-time and summer-time, and spring again after!
           O wind on the waterfall, and the leaves' laughter!

          I had an errand here: gathering water-lilies,
          green leaves and lilies white to please my pretty lady,
          the last ere the year's end to keep them from the winter,
          to flower by her pretty feet till the snows are melted.
          Each year at summer's end I go to find them for her,
          in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down Withywindle;
          there they open first in spring and there they linger latest.
          By that pool long ago I found the River-Daughter,
          fair young Goldberry sitting in the rushes.
          Sweet was her singing then, and her heart was beating!

          And that proved well for you - for now I shell no longer
          go down deep again along the forest-water,
          not while the year is old. Nor shall I be passing
          Old Man Willow's house this side of spring-time,
          not till the merry spring, when the River-daughter
          dances down the withy-path to bathe in the water.

         Ho! Tom Bombadil, Tom Bombadillo!
         By water, wood and hill, by reed and willow,
         By fire, sun and moon, harken now and hear us!
         Come, Tom Bombadil, for our need is near us!

                Cold be hand and heart and bone,
                and cold be sleep under stone:
                never more to wake on stony bed,
                never, till the Sun fails and  the Moon is dead.
                In the black wind the stars shall die,
                and still on gold here let them lie,
                till the dark lord lifts his hand,
                over dead sea and withered land.

          Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow,
          Bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow.
          None has ever caught him yet, for Tom, he is the Master:
          His songs are stronger sons, and his feet are faster.

          Get out, you old Wight! Vanish in the sunlight!
          Shrivel like the cold mist, like the winds go wailing,
          Out into the barren lands far beyond the mountains!
          Come never here again! Leave you barrow empty!
          Lost and forgotten be, darker than the darkness,
          Where gates stand for ever shut, till the world is mended.

          Wake now my merry lads! Wake and hear me calling!
          Warm now be heart and limb! The cold stone is fallen;
          Dark door is standing wide; dead hand is broken.
          Night under Night is flown, and the Gate is open!

          Hey! now! Come hoy now! Whither do you wander?
          Up, down, near or far, here, there or yonder?
          Sharp-ears, Wise-nose, Swish-tail and Bumpkin,
          White-socks my little lad, and old Fatty Lumpkin!

          Tom's country ends here: he will not pass the borders.
          Tom has his house to mind, and Goldberry is waiting!

                  There is an inn, a merry old inn
                   beneath the old grey hill,
                  And there they brew a beer so brown
                  That the Man in the Moon himself come down
                   one night ti drink his fill.

                  The  ostler has a tipsy cat
                   that plays a five-stringed fiddle;
                  And up and down he runs his bow,
                  Now squeaking high, now purring low,
                   now sawing in the middle.

                  The landlord keeps a little dog
                   that is mighty fond of jokes;
                  When there's good cheer among the guests,
                  Ho cocks an ear at all the jests
                   and laughs until he chokes.

                  They also keep a horned cow
                   as proud as any queen;
                  But music turns her head like ale,
                  And makes her wave her tufted tail
                   and dance upon the green.

                  And O! the rows of silver dishes
                   and the store of silver spoons!
                  For Sunday there's a special pair,
                  And these they polish up with care
                   on Saturday afternoons.

                  The Man of the Moon was drinking deep,
                   and the cat began to wail;
                  A dish and a spoon on the table danced.
                  The cow in the garden madly pranced,
                   and the little dog chased his tail.

                  The Man of the Moon took another mug,
                   and then rolled beneath his chair;
                  And there he dozed and dreamed of ale,
                  Till in the sky the stars were pale,
                   and dawn was in the air.

                  Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat:
                   'The white horses of the Moon,
                  They neigh and champ their silver bits;
                  But their master's been and drowned his wits,
                   and the Sun'll be rising soon!'

                  So the cat on his fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle,
                   a jig that would wake the dead:
                  He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune,
                  While the landlord shook the Man of the Moon:
                   'It's after three' he said.

                  They rolled the Man slowly up the hill
                   and bundled him into the Moon,
                  While his horses galloped up in rear,
                  And the cow came capering like a deer,
                   and a dish ran up with the spoon.

                  Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle;
                   the dog began to roar,
                  The cow and the horses stood on their heads;
                  The guests all bounded from their beds
                   and danced upon the floor.

                  With a ping and a pong the fiddle-strings broke!
                   the cow jumped over the Moon,
                  And the little dog laughed to see such fun,
                  And the Saturday dish went off at a run
                   with the silver Sunday spoon.

                  The round Moon rolled behind the hill,
                   as the Sun raised up her head.
                  She hardly believed her fiery eyes;
                  For though it was day, to her surprise
                   they all went back to bed!

              All that is gold does not glitter,
               Not all those who wander are lost;
              The old that is strong does not wither,
               Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
              From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
               A light from the shadow shall spring;
              Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
               The crownless again shell be king.

              Gil-galad was an Elven-king.
              Of him the harpers sadly sing:
              the last whose realm was fair and free
              between the Mountains and the Sea.

              His sword was long, his lance was keen,
              his shining helm afar was seen;
              the countless stars of heaven's field
              were mirrored in his silver shield.

              But long ago he rode away,
              and where he dwelleth none can say;
              for into darkness fell his star
              in Mordor where the shadows are.

              The leaves was long, the grass was green,
               The hemlock-umbels tall and fair,
              And in the glade a light was seen
               Of stars in shadow shimmering.
              Tinuviel was dancing there
               To music of a pipe unseen,
              And light of stars was in her hair,
               And in her raiment glimmering.

              There Beren came from mountains cold,
               And lost he wandered under leaves,
              And where the Elven-river rolled
               He walked alone and sorrowing.
              He peered between the hemlock-leaves
               And saw in wonder flowers of gold
              Upon her mantle and her sleeves,
               And her hair like shadow following.

              Enchantment healed his weary feet
               That over hills were doomed to roam;
              And forth he hastened, strong and fleet,
               And grasped at moonbeams glistening.
              Through woven woods in Elvenhome
               She lightly fled on dancing feet,
              And left him lonely still to roam
               In the silent forest listening.

              He heard there oft the flying sound
               Of feet as light as linden-leaves,
              Or music welling underground,
               In hidden hollows quavering.
              Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves,
               And one by one with sighing sound
              Whispering fell the beechen leaves
               In the wintry woodland wavering.

              He sought her ever, wandering far
               Where leaves of years were thickly strewn,
              By light of moon and ray of star
               In frosty heavens shivering.
              Her mantle glinted in the moon,
               As on a hill-top high and far
              She danced, and at her feet was strewn
               A mist of silver quivering.

              When winter passed, she came again
               And her song released the sudden spring,
              Like rising lark, and falling rain,
               And melting water bubbling.
              He saw the elven-flowers spring
               About her feet, and healed again
              He longed by her to dance and sing
               Upon the grass untroubling.

              Again she fled, but swift hr came.
               Tinuviel! Tinuviel!
              He called her by her elvish name;
               And there she halted listening.
              One moment stood she, and a spell
               His voice laid on her: Beren came,
              And doom fell on Tinuviel
               That in his arms lay glistening.

              As Beren looked into her eyes
               Within the shadows of her hair,
              The trembling starlight of the skies
               He saw the mirrored shimmering.
              Tinuviel the elven-fair
               Immortal maiden elven-wise,
              About him cast her shadowy hair
               And arms like silver glimmering.

              Long was the way that fate them bore,
               O'er stony mountains cold and gray,
              Through halls of iron and darkling door,
               And woods of nightshade morrowless.
              The Sundering Seas between them lay,
               And yet at last they met once more,
              And long ago they passed away
               In the forest singing sorrowless.

                Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
                And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
                 For many a year he had gnawed it near,
                  For meat was hard to come by.
                     Done by! Gum by!
                 In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
                  And meat  was hard to come by.

                Up came Tom with his big boots on.
                Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?
                 For it looks like a shin o' my nuncle Tim,
                  As should be a-lyin' in graveyard.
                     Caveyard! Paveyard!
                 This many a year has Tim been gone,
                  And I thought he were lyin' in graveyard.'

                'My lad', said Troll, 'this bone I stole.
                But what be bones that lie in a hole?
                 Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
                  Afore I found his shinbone.
                     Tinbone! Thinbone!
                 He can spare a share for a poor old troll.
                  For he don't need his shinbone.'

                Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee
                Without axin' leave should go makin' free
                 With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
                  So hand the old bone over!
                     Rover! Trover!
                 Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
                  So hand the old bone over!

                'For a couple o' pins,' says Troll, and grins,
                'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
                 A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
                  I'll try my teeth on thee now.
                     Hee now! See now!
                 I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
                  I've a mind to dine on thee now.'

                But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
                He found his hands had hold of naught.
                 Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
                  And gave him the boot to larn him.
                     Warn him! Darn him!
                  A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
                   Would be the way to larn him.

                But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
                Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
                 As well set your boot to the mountain's root:
                  For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
                     Peel it! Heal it!
                 Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan.
                  And he knew his toes could feel it.

                Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
                And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
                 But Troll don't care, and he's still there
                  With the bone he boned from its owner.
                     Doner! Boner!
                 Troll's old seat is still the same,
                  And the bone he boned from its owner!

                   Earendil was a mariner
                   that tarried in Arvernien;
                   he built a boat of timber felled
                   in Nimbrethil to journey un;
                   her sails he wove of silver fair,
                   of silver were her lanterns made,
                   her prow was fashioned like a swan,
                   and light upon her banners laid.

                   In panoply of ancient kings,
                   in chained rings he armored him;
                   his shining shield was scored with runes
                   to ward all wounds and harm from him;
                   his bow was made of dragon-horn,
                   his arrows shorn of ebony
                   of silver was his habergeon,
                   his scabbard of chalcedony;
                   his sword of steel was valiant,
                   of adamant his helmet tall,
                   an eagle-plume upon his crest,
                   upon his breast an emerald.

                   Beneath the Moon and under star
                   he wandered far from northern strands,
                   bewildered on enchanted ways
                   beyond the days of mortal lands.
                   From gnashing of the Narrow Ice
                   where shadow lies on frozen hills,
                   from nether heats and burning waste
                   he turned in haste, and roving still
                   on starless waters far astray
                   at last he came to Night of Naught,
                   and passed, and never sight he saw
                   of shining shore nor light he sought.
                   The winds of wrath came driving him,
                   and blindly in the foam he fled
                   from west to east and errandless,
                   unheralded he homeward sped.

                   There flying Elwing came to him,
                   and flame was in the darkness lit;
                   more bright than light of diamond
                   the fire of her carcanet.
                   The Silmaril she bound on him
                   and crowned him with the living light,
                   and dauntless then with burning brow
                   he turned his prow; and in the night
                   from otherworld beyond the Sea
                   there strong and fee a storm arose,
                   a wind of power in Tarmenel;
                   by paths that seldom mortal goes
                   his boat in bore of biting breath
                   as might of death across the gray
                   and long-forsaken seas distressed:
                   from east to west he passed away.

                   Through Evernight he back was borne
                   on black and roaring waves that ran
                   o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores
                   that drowned before the Days began,
                   until he hears on strands of pearl
                   where ends the world the music long,
                   where ever-foaming billows roll,
                   the yellow gold and jewels wan.
                   He saw the Mountain silent rise
                   where twilight lies upon the knees
                   of Valinor, and Eldamar
                   beheld afar beyond the seas.
                   A wanderer escaped from night
                   to haven white he came at last,
                   to Elvenhome the green and fair
                   where keen the air, where pale all glass
                   beneath the Hill of Ilmarin
                   a-glimmer in a valley sheer
                   the lamplit towers of Tirion
                   are mirrored on the Shadowmere.

                   He tarried there from errantry,
                   and melodies they taught to him,
                   and sages old him marvels told,
                   and harps of gold they brought to him.
                   They clothed him then in elven-white,
                   and seven lights before him sent,
                   as through the Calacirian
                   to hidden land forlorn he went.
                   He came unto the timeless halls,
                   where shining fall the countless years,
                   and endless reigns the Elder King
                   in Ilmarin of Mountain sheer;
                   and words unheard were spoken then
                   of folk of Men and Elven-kin,
                   beyond the world were visions showed
                   forbid to those that dwell therein.

                   A ship then new they built for him
                   of mithril and of elven-glass
                   with shining prow; no shaven oar
                   nor sail she bore on silver mast:
                   the Silmaril as lantern light
                   and banner bright with living flame
                   to gleam thereon by Elbereth
                   herself was set, who thither came
                   and wings immortal made for him,
                   and laid on him undying doom,
                   to sail the shoreless skies and come
                   behind the Sun and light of Moon.

                   From Evereven's lofty hills
                   where softly silver fountains fall
                   his wings him bore, a wandering light,
                   beyond the mighty Mountain Wall.
                   From World's End then he turned away,
                   and yearned again to find afar
                   his home through shadows journeying,
                   and burning as an island star
                   on high above the mists he came,
                   a distant flame before the Sun,
                   a wonder ere the waking dawn
                   where grey the Norland waters run.

                   And over Middle-earth he passed
                   and heard at last the weeping sore
                   of women and of elven-maids
                   in Elder Days, in years of yore.
                   But on him mighty doom was laid,
                   till Moon should fade, an orbed star
                   to pass, and tarry newer more
                   on Hither Shores where mortals are;
                   for ever still a herald on
                   an errand that should newer rest
                   to bear his shining lamp afar,
                   the Flammifer of Westernesse.

                     A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
                     silivren penna miriel
                     o menel aglar elenath!
                     Na-chaered palan-diriel
                     o galadhremmin ennorath,
                     Fanuilos, le linnathon
                     nef aear, si nef aearon!

                 Seek for the Sword that was broken:
                  In Imladris it dwells;
                 There shall be counsels taken
                  Stronger than Morgul-spells.
                 There shall be shown a token
                  That Doom is near at hand,
                 For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
                  And the Halfling forth shall stand.

             When winter first begins to bite
              and stones crack in the frosty night,
             when pools are black and trees are bare,
              'tis evil in the Wild to fare.

                 I sit beside the fire and think
                  of all that I have seen,
                 of meadow-flowers and butterflies
                  in summers that have been;

                 Of yellow leaves and gossamer
                  in autumns that there were,
                 with morning mist and silver sun
                  and wind upon my hair.

                 I sit beside the fire and think
                  of how the world will be
                 when winter comes without a spring
                  that I shall ever see.

                 For still there are so many things
                  that I have never seen:
                 in every wood in every spring
                  there is a different green.

                 I sit beside the fire an think
                  of people long ago,
                 and people who will see a world
                  that I shall never know.

                 But all the while I sit and think
                  of times there were before,
                 I listen for returning feet
                  and voices at the door.

               The world was young, the mountains green,
               No stain yet on the Moon was seen,
               No words were laid on stream or stone,
               When Durin woke and walked alone.
               He named the nameless hills and dells;
               He drank from yet untasted wells;
               He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,
               And saw a crown of stars appear,
               As gems upon a silver thread,
               Above the shadow of his head.

               The world was fair, the mountains tall,
               In Elder Days before the fall
               Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
               And Gondolin, who now beyond
               The Western Seas have passed away:
               The world was fair in Durin's Day.

               A king he was on carven throne
               In many-pillared halls of stone
               With golden roof and silver floor,
               And runes of power upon the door.
               The light of sun and star and moon
               In shining lamps of crystal hewn
               Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
               There shone for ever fair and bright.

               There hammer on the anvil smote,
               There chisel clove, and graver wrote;
               There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;
               The delver mined, the mason built.
               There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,
               And metal wrought like fishes' mail,
               Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
               And shining spears were laid in hoard.

               Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
               Beneath the mountains music woke:
               The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
               And at the gates the trumpets rang.

               The world is grey, the mountains old,
               The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
               No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
               The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
               The shadow lies upon his tomb
               In Moria, in Khazad-dum.
               But still the sunken stars appear
               In dark and windless Mirrormere;
               There lies his crown in water deep,
               Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

                 An Elven-maid there was of old,
                  A shining star by day:
                 Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,
                  Her shoes of silver-grey.

                 A star was bound upon her brows,
                  A light was on her hair
                 As sun upon the golden boughs
                  In Lorien the fair.

                 Her hair was long, her limbs where white,
                  And fair she was and free;
                 And in the wind she went as light
                  As leaf of linden-tree.

                 Beside the falls of Nimrodel,
                  By water clear and cool,
                 Her voice as falling silver fell
                  Into the shinning pool.

                 Where now she wanders none can tell,
                  In sunlight or in shade;
                 For lost of yore was Nimrodel
                  And in the mountains strayed.

                 The elven-ship in haven grey
                  Beneath the mountain-lee
                 Awaited her for many a day
                  Beside the roaring sea.

                 A wind by night in Northern lands
                  Arose, and loud it cried,
                 And drove the ship from elven-strands
                  Across the streaming tide.

                 When dawn came dim the land was lost,
                  The mountains sinking grey
                 Beyond the heaving waves that tossed
                  Their plumes of blinding spray.

                 Amroth beheld the fading shore
                  Now low beyond the swell,
                 And cursed the faithless ship that bore
                  Him far from Nimrodel.

                 Of old he was an Elven-king,
                  A lord of tree and glen,
                 When golden were the boughs in spring
                  In fair Lothlorien.

                 From helm to sea they saw him leap,
                  As arrow from the string,
                 And dive into the water deep,
                  As mew upon the wing.

                 The wind was in his flowing hair,
                  The foam about him shone;
                 Afar they saw him strong and fair
                  Go riding like a swan.

                 But from the West has come no word,
                  And on the Hither Shore
                 No tidings Elven-folk heard
                  Of Amroth evermore.

                    When evening in the Shire was grey
                    his footsteps on the Hill were heard;
                    before the dawn he went away
                    on journey long without a word.

                    From Wilderland to Western shore,
                    from northern waste to southern hill,
                    through dragon-lair and hidden door
                    and darkling woods he walked at will.

                    With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves and Men,
                    with mortal and immortal folk,
                    with bird on bough and beast in den,
                    in their own secret tongues he spoke.

                    A deadly sword, a healing hand,
                    a back that bent beneath it load;
                    a trumpet-voice, a burning brand,
                    a weary pilgrim on the road.

                    A lord of wisdom throned he sat,
                    swift in anger, quick to laugh;
                    an old man in a battered hat
                    who leaned upon a throny staff.

                    He stood upon the bridge alone
                    and Fire and Shadow both defied;
                    his staff was broken on the stone,
                    in Khazad-dum his wisdom died.

                    The finest rockets ever seen:
                    they burst in stars of blue and green,
                    on after thunder golden showers
                    came falling like a rain of flowers.

    I sang of leaves, of leaves of gold, and leaves of gold there grew:
    Of wind I sang, a wind there came and in the branches blew.
    Beyond the Sun, beyond the Moon, the foam was on the Sea,
    And by the strand of Ilmarin there grew a golden Tree.
    Beneath the stars of Ever-eve in Eldamar it shone,
    In Eldamar beside the walls of Elven Tirion.
    There long the golden leaves have grown upon the branching years,
    While here beyond the Sundering Seas now fall the Elven-tears.
    O Lorien! The Winter comes, the bare and leafless Day;
    The leaves are falling in the stream, the River flows away.
    O Lorien! Too long I have dwelt upon this Hither Shore
    And in a fading crown have twined the golden elanor.
    But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,
    What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?

                  Ai! laurie lantar lassi surinen!
                  Yeni unotime ve ramar aldaron,
                  yeni ve linte yuldar vanier
                  mi oromardi lisse-miruvoreva
                  Andune pella Vardo tellumar
                  nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni
                  omaryo airetari-lirinen.

                  Si man i yulma nin enquantuva?

                  An si Tintalle Varda Oiolosseo
                  ve fanyar maryat Elentari ortane
                  ar ilye tier undulave lumbule,
                  ar sindanoriello caita mornie
                  i falmalinnar imbe met, ar hisie
                  untupa Calaciryo miri oiale.
                  Si vanwa na, Romello vanwa, Valimar!

                  Namarie! Nai hiruvalye Valimar.
                  Nai elye hiruva. Namarie!

Яндекс цитирования