Green, lady, the green of your hands
winding in the branches on the
blind, separate dark.

And green, lady, the green in your hair,
like the pennants in the stone city,
hides its colour in
the liquid Moon.

My lady, remember when we
walked in the woods
when the things that were dying
were drinking from the stream.

And tall were the lebethron
spreading their late crowns,
their branches barely touching,
like young lovers.

And we rode out of the woods, down from
the hilly vales.
I said:
Lo! my love, here is the River.
In Ithilien the River
is cold and wide. In Ithilien the River
is the lover
who will not stay. On its breast
the years are flowing by.

My lady, you are in loveliness to me as the
broad-leaved woods to the deer,
or the pebbled banks of Anduin to the leaping trout,
summer after summer.

Yet I love you better
than I love all this land.

In the days of Shadow
under the trembling sky
all you asked of me were words.
I say this now.

Before the Dread Beast you unfurled
your hair, cold and bright,
glittering when the Sun had gone out.
Fair and fell you were, and savage was
your heart among the rising smoke.
But no words of praise are these,
for I saw you not that day.

In the fields of Edoras where the Sun
beats down on the bending grass,
where the unlettered plowmen sing from their
long memories,
your glory is everlasting.

But each morning you smile beneath the
eaves of my house, and the
River is seized, and leaves halted in their falling,
and the Sun
is plucked from the sky.