John Ronald Ruel Tolkien. All songs from "Fellowship of the Ring"

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...

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.

      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!

GerD: Респект!!! Мой личный плюсик в рейтинг!

Оригинал то некоторых стихов у меня в компе есть, а вот перевод....... ну что ж, попичатаем  !
John Ronald Ruel Tolkien. Selected verses

1. Where now the horse and the rider?

Where is the helm and the hauberk,
                       and the bright hair flowing?
Where is the hand on the harpstring,
                        and the red fire glowing?
Where is the spring and the harvest
                        and the tall corn growing?
They have passed like rain on the mountain,
                        like a wind in the meadow;
The days have gone down in the West
                        behind the hills into shadow.
Who shall gather the smoke
                        of the dead wood burning,
Or behold the flowing years
                        from the Sea returning?

2

In the willow-meads of Tasarinan I walked in the Spring.
Ah! The sight and the smell of the Spring in Nan-Tasarion!
And I say it was good.
I wndered in Summer in the elm-woods of Ossiriand.
Ah! The light and the music in the Summer by the
                Seven Rivers of Ossir!
And I thought that was best.
To the beeches of Neldoreth I came in the Autumn.
Ah! the gold and the red and the sighing of leaves
                in the Autumn in Taur-na-Neldor!
It was more than my desire.
To the pine-trees upon the highlands of Dorthonion
                I climbed in the Winter.
Ah! the wind and the whiteness and the black branches
                of Winter Upon Orod-na-Thon!
My voice went up and sang in the sky.
And now all those lands lie under the wave,
And I walk in Ambarona, in Tauremorna, in Aldalome,
In my own land, in the country of Fangorn,
Where the roots are long,
And years lie thicker than the leaves
In Tauremornalome.

3

Where now are the Dunedain, Elessar,Elessar?
Why do thy kinsfolk wander afar?
Near is the hour when the Lost should come forth,
And the Grey Company ride from the North.
But dark is the path appointed for thee:
The Dead watch the road that leads to the Sea.

4. x x x

Legolas Greenleaf long under tree
In joy thou hast lived. Beware of the Sea!
If thou hearest the cry of the gull on the shore,
Thy heart shall then rest in the forest no more.

5

Arise now, arise, Riders of Theoden!
Dire Deeds awake, dark is it eastward.
Let horse be bridled, horn be sounded!
        Forth Eorlingas!

6

Ere iron was found or tree was hewn,
When young was mountain under moon;
Ere ring was made, or wrought was woe,
It walked the forests long ago.

7.
Tall ships and tall kings,
        Three times three,
What brought they from the foundered land
        Over the flouing sea?
Seven stars and seven stones
        And one white tree.

все! остальное буду печатать!

и специально по просьбе GerD'a 

Песнь о Берене и Лучиэнь-Тинувиэль

Был зелен плющ, и вился хмель,
Лилась листвы полночной тень,
Кружила звездная метель
В тиши полян, в плетенье трав.
Там танцевала Лучиэнь;
Ей пела тихая свирель,
Укрывшись в сумрачную сень
Безмолвно дремлющих дубрав.

Шел Берен от холодных гор,
Исполнен скорби, одинок;
Он устремлял печальный взор
Во тьму, ища угасший день.
Его укрыл лесной чертог,
И вспыхнул золотой узор
Цветов, пронзающий поток
Волос летящих Лучиэнь.

Он поспешил на этот свет,
Плывущий меж густой листвы;
Он звал—но слышался в ответ
Лишь шорох в бездне тишины,
И на соцветиях травы
Дрожал под ветром светлый след
На бликах темной синевы,
В лучах бледнеющей луны.

При свете утренней звезды
Он снова шел—и снова звал…
В ответ лишь шорох темноты,
Ручьев подземных смех и плач.
Но хмель поник и терн увял,
Безмолвно умерли цветы,
И землю медленно объял
Сухой листвы шуршащий плащ.

Шел Берен через мертвый лес,
В тоске бродил среди холмов,
Его манил полет небес
И дальний отблеск зимних гроз…
В случайном танце облаков
Он видел облик, что исчез,
В извивах пляшущих ветров
Он видел шелк ее волос.

Она предстала перед ним
В наряде солнечных огней,
Под небом нежно-голубым,
В цветах оттаявшей земли;
Так пробуждается ручей,
Дотоле холодом томим,
Так льется чище и нежней
Мотив, что птицы принесли.

Она пришла—и в тот же миг
Исчезла вновь… Но он воззвал:
--Тинувиэль!—И скорбный клик
Звучал в лесах и облаках…
И светлый рок на землю пал,
И светлый рок ее настиг,
И нежный свет ее мерцал,
Дрожа, у Берена в руках.

Он заглянул в ее глаза—
В них отражался путь светил,
В них билась вешняя гроза…
И в этот час, и в этот день
Несла рожденье новых сил
Ее бессмертная краса.
Свершилось то, что рок сулил
Для Берена и Лучиэнь.

В глуши лесов, где гаснет взор,
В холодном царстве серых скал,
В извивах черных рудных нор
Их стерегли моря разлук…
Но миг свиданья вновь настал,
Как рок сулил; и с этих пор
На том пути, что их призвал,
Они не разнимали рук.

Но всю песню, от начала до конца, помнит, как известно, только лишь Элронд.

Вот лежал у меня на компе:

Т. КУХТА

ВЫСАДКА ФЕАНОРА

Под ветром холодным, по бурным волнам
В кровавых лучах заката
Приплыли Нолдоры к берегам,
Покинутым ими когда-то.
За ними лежал ледяной простор,
Пред ними песок розовел...
И первым на берег сошел Феанор
И семь его сыновей.
И вождь воскликнул: "Так вот он - мир!
Так вот они - власть и месть!"
И кличем радостным из семи
Словам его вторили шесть.
Лишь Маэдрос был задумчив и тих,
Глядел он с края земли
На белых птиц, на погибших птиц -
На пленные корабли.
- Отец мой, вождь! Мы из светлых стран,
К цели своей пришли.
Вели же послать кораблей караван,
За братом послать вели!
(Был другом Фингону старший сын
Еще в Валинора пределах,
И вместе гнали добычу их псы,
И рядом летели стрелы).
Нахмурил брови вождь Феанор,
И вдруг разразился смехом,
Таким, что вершины заснеженных гор
Испуганно вторили эхом.
- Мой гордый брат, мой неверный пес
И свора его щенят!
Ты хочешь, чтобы раздор он принес
И отнял власть у меня?
Пускай же глядит из западных нор,
Как здесь восходит заря!
Поджечь корабли! - велел Феанор -
Пускай корабли горят!
И первый факел, чертя дугу,
Он сам поднес к парусам,
И запылыл костер на снегу,
И дым взлетел к небесам,
И падал хлопьями черный снег,
И пламя ревело дико,
И мачты-крылья гибли в огне,
Ломаясь с предсмертным криком.
И отразила огонь вода,
Прозрачна с древних времен,
И пламя Фингольфин увидал,
И понял, что предан он.
Таился ужас в подзвездной мгле,
И вождь недвижим стоял,
И отблеск огня на его челе
Кровавым рубцом пылал.

А вот мои... Не знаю, вроде как и фентези... зацените...

Плач принцессы в башне

И снова ночь... И снова раны
Души несмелой мне не дают уснуть.
Решетка клетки золотой мне режет пальцы
Свобода рядом! Но невозможен путь
Туда, к рассвету, счастью и любви!
Я в этой башне обречена на гибель...
Бог не поможет, как его ты не моли!
Да, признаюсь, отца я ненавижу
За глупую жестокость, любви я в нем не вижу!
И неужели приносит ему радость
Знанье того что дочь его умрет!
Нет, я не больна, но эта слабость
Рано или поздно меня убьет.
Я так жалею, что крестьянкою не родилась!
Пускай бы я познала бедность,
Зато не видела бы эту мразь,
Этих придворных и рож их бледность!
Ах, мне нельзя говорить так грубо!
Я умолкаю и смыкаю губы...
Нет, хватит! Довольно мне молчать!
На всю страну хочу я прокричать:
Я ненавижу короля, и слуг я ненавижу!
Все их интриги и всю злобу их я вижу!
Жизнь подданных их так волнует,
Как нищего - придворный этикет!
Им все равно, что со страною будет!
Но я не с ними, меня там не было и нет!
Подальше от миру заперли меня в башню -
Я коротаю в ней последние закаты у окна.
Я больше не увижу горы, реки, пашни
Ложусь и просыпаюсь я одна...

       Диалог рыцаря и Смерти.

Рыцарь:

Все! Мне довольно! Я не желаю знать
Своих былых любимых и друзей,
Я не желаю недостойно воевать
За чернородных графов и князей!
Моя душа насытилась грехами
Я убивал виновных и святых.
Я разрывал сердца клинками,
Мой меч и щит...Я ненавижу их!
Я проклинать готов тот день,
Когда родился я в том белом замке,
Где до сих пор царит порок и лень,
Висит портрет Пророка в белоснежной рамке...
Сейчас я выпью яд, мои мученья оборвутся!
И тайны страшные перестану я хранить...
О, Смерть, позволь мне вновь в тебя вернуться,
Возьми меня, я не достоин жить!

Смерть:

Однажды темной и безлунной ночью
Придешь ты слепо в страшные объятия мои
Клянусь, в них счастья не познаешь,
Но раньше времени проклятье не зови.
Не выстилай ему дорогу лепестками
Тех роз, что грубо оборвал,
И не коли души шипами.
Порочной правды, что ты знал,
Признать не смог, и в том вина.
Но есть вина лишь там, где нет сознанья
Ошибок прошлых: ты отплатил за них сполна.
Сейчас не стоит унижаться до лукавства
И говорить, что умереть достоин ты сейчас!
Нутром ты хочешь жить! А мое царство
Не сможет уместить всех вас,
Кто недостойно мужу мир покинул!
Не стоит жизнь губить! Придет твой час!

Рыцарь:

Я даже смерти недостоин...
И в темном царстве не найдется места мне...
Но Смерть права, я муж, я воин!
Но вся душа моя в огне...
И сердце, и глава пылают,
Но руки я не должен опускать!
Покуда стрелы как ветры летают,
Покуда крепок в руке меч,
Я должен жить, и миру дать
Свою защиту, а не убивать!
Сегодня же со службы глупой увольняюсь,
И ухожу...Куда - не знаю я пока.
Перед Великой Смертью каюсь,
И признаю: нет хуже дурака,
Чем тот, кто в расцвете сил и лет своих,
Жизнь покидает безрассудно.
В глазах твоих, о Смерть, слепых,
Узрил я истину, мое виденье чудно!

Смерть:

Иди же, рыцарь! Битвы ждут тебя!
Я уже готовлюсь звать твоих врагов
На бесконечный пир кошмарных снов...

Мария Семенова, текст из романа "Волкодав:

Меч
Вспорю кольчугу, как листок,
Чертя свистящую дугу.
Пушинка ляжет на клинок -
И распадется на лету.

И все ж не этим я силен.
Иным судьба моя горда:
Я Божьей Правдой наделен
И неподкупностью суда.

Я - меч. Прославленный кузнец
Меня любовно закалял.
Огонь Творящий - мой Отец.
А Мать - глубокая Земля.

Когда исчерпаны слова
И никакой надежды нет
Понять, кто прав, кто виноват, -
Спроси меня! Я дам ответ.

Суров мой краткий приговор:
Всему на свете есть цена!
Огнем горит стальной узор -
Священной вязи письмена.

Я - меч. Прославленный кузнец
Меня любовно закалял.
Огонь Творящий - мой Отец.
А Мать - глубокая Земля.

Закон небесный и земной
Навеки вплел в себя мой нрав...
И потому хозяин мой
Непобедим, покуда прав.

Я - меч. Прославленный кузнец
Меня любовно закалял.
Огонь Творящий - мой Отец.
А Мать - глубокая Земля.