CANTO I Of Finrod tarrying in Ossiriand

In eastern land was once a wood
dense with elm and ashes grey
that under Ered Luin stood
and in its eaves did Finrod stray.
He walked by flowing river cold
and trod the valley’s secret ways
when spring was young upon the mould
in woodlands of the Elder Days.

From guard and friend he turned aside
wearying of the hunt, he rode
across the Gelion's waters wide
and took upon the Dwarven-road.
His quarry gone, his arrows spent,
softly rolled the forest stream
his feet along its waters went,    
and walked as if a waking dream;
unhorsed he wandered neath the trees
he silent passed by walls of stone,
while grasses bended in the breeze:
to Thargelion, he walked alone.

For Finrod was an Elven lord,
a prince returned from Eldamar,
so bright his crown and keen his sword
in Nargothrond beneath the stars.
A thread of jewels like dews upon
a mantle dark wore Finrod king.
His belt was sewn with silver wan
and emeralds were in his ring
as serpents twain, that once was wrought
by Elven-smiths before the Dawn,
when crystal lamps lit forges hot
in the shinning halls of Tirion.

Unsounding soft did Finrod tread
in flowers and in shifting grass,
his singing voice had windless sped
headlong, as clear as chiming glass.
And free was Ossiriand that he
unbound by time had walked upon
like a dreamer deep in reverie
amazed and lost, until the dawn
and night alike had passed him by
and through the flower-meads he led
and still the dark and starry sky
wheeled above his golden head.
For long he walked in grasses strewn    
with thistle-blooms and warblers filled
and silent neath the penilune
Finrod by a clearing stilled.