I used to long for light of moon and sun
When in Nan Elmoth’s dark and lonesome bow’r.
At last my father’s smithy I did shun,
And lis’t to mother’s tales of Golden flower.
Escaped at last from dark abode of night
I made my home in Gondolin the fair.
Bereft of parents, lonely, yet new light
Streamed in me when I saw thee sitting there.

O Idril! Eyes like misty drops of dew
And golden hair like strands of sunlight streams,
My soul is lost when thou art in my view,
And sleep or wake thou hauntest me in dreams.

One glance from thee doth still my beating heart.
When thou art mine then never shall we part.

O Idril! Wilt thou not once look to me?
Thou seest how in torment my heart writhes.
I shrink from scoffing glances that I see,
And the cold looks of stone from thy bright eyes.

Avoidest thou my presence, though I long
For thee to see alone, if thou dost wish.
But me thou heedest not, and hold me wrong
If thy soft tender lips I wish to kiss.

Thou givest all the kindness and the good
To Gondolin, the people of the flow’r,
Though I could not once touch thee, though I would;
Of my time here I curse each bitter hour.

Rejection of my love doth plant a seed.
Beware lest my dark soul thou dost not heed.

I gnaw the bindings of mine own dark hate
Immured in my lugubrious heart’s cell.
Nothing but blood can mine own vengeance sate,
Or else will plunge my soul deep into hell.

How dost the base-born mortal, Tuor, dare
To touch thee, silver maiden, with his hand?
The argent bridal gown thy lithe form wears.
How much more torment can my soul yet stand?

My torment greater is than thou canst know,
Within the love of thy own father’s house.
To Tuor deepest scorn I will not show:
But burn inside for hate of mortal louse.

I gnaw the bindings of mine own deep hate.
Beware lest thou partake of my dark fate.

Pain. Pain, and anger, torment for my soul,
My heart strings raked in never-ending pain,
I’m cloven into two, I am not whole.
I pray that all my toil shan't be in vain!
Limbs wrung and twisted, broken, cut and stretched;
My body just as spirit feels inside.
In squalid filth how many times I’ve retched!
To Idril in the darkness how I've cried!

But for thee, my Idril, I’d do aught,
And then my torment Morgoth would relieve –
Thou understand why this dark fate I’ve sought:
That thou’lt be mine at last I still believe.

O Gondolin! The Golden-budded Flower!
Thou at last hath seen thy final hour.