With autumn skies were dayly breathing,
Not every day the sun was gleaming,
Each day was shorter at the noon,
The secret canopy of wood.
With grievous noise became all naked,
The tog was falling on the fields,
The caravan of crying geese
For south fleeted.
And unwaited
The time was coming, dull and hard:
November stood in front of yard.

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.