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!

            Gilithoniel! 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 shinning hand by her were sown,
            In windy fields now bright and clear
            We see your silver blossom blown!

            O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!
            We still remember, we who dwell
            In this far land beneath the trees,
            Thy starlight on the Western Seas.

( isgirsta Frodo)

            A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
            O Elbereth Star-kindler

            silivren penna míriel
            (white) glittering slants down sparkling like jewels

            o menel aglar elenath!
            from [the] firmament [the] glory [of] the star-host!

            Na-chaered palan-díriel
            To-remote distance far-having gazed

            o galadhremmin ennorath,
            from [the] tree-tangled middle-lands,

            Fanuilos, le linnathon
            Everwhite, to thee I will chant

            nef aear, sí nef aearon!
            on this side of ocean, here on this side of the Great Ocean!

            In Dwimordene, in Lórien

            Seldom have walked the feet of Men,
            Few mortal eyes have seen the light
            That lies there ever, long and bright.
            Galadriel! Galadriel!
            Clear is the water of your well;
            White is the star in your white hand;
            Unmarred, unstained is leaf and land
            In Dwimordene, in Lórien

            More fair than thoughts of Mortal Men

            To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,
            The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying.
            West, west away, the round sun is falling.
            Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling,
            The voices of my people that have gone before me?
            I will leave, I will leave the woods that bore me;
            For our days are ending and our years failing.
            I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing.
            Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling,
            Sweet are the voices in the Lost Isle calling,
            In Eressëa, in Elvenhome that no man can discover,
            Where the leaves fall not: land of my people for ever!
          

            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

            In that vast shadow once of yore
            Fingolfin stood: his shield he bore
            with field of heaven's blue and star
            of crystal shining pale afar.
            In overmastering wrath and hate
            desperate he smote upon that gate,
            the Gnomish king, there standing lone,
            while endless fortresses of stone
            engulfed the thin clear ringing keen
            of silver horn on baldric green.
            His hopeless challenge dauntless cried
            Fingolfin there: 'Come, open wide,
            dark king, you ghatsly brazen doors!
            Come forth, whom earth and heaven abhors!
            Come forth, O monstruous craven lord,
            and fight with thine own hand and sword,
            thou wielder of hosts of banded thralls,
            thou tyrant leaguered with strong walls,
            thou foe of Gods and elvish race!
            I wait thee here. Come! Show thy face!'

            Then Morgoth came. For the last time
            in those great wars he dared to climb
            from subterranean throne profound,
            the rumour of his feet a sound
            of rumbling earthquake underground.
            Black-armoured, towering, iron-crowned
            he issued forth; his mighty shield
            a vast unblazoned sable field
            with shadow like a thundercloud;
            and o'er the gleaming king it bowed,
            as huge aloft like mace he hurled
            that hammer of the underworld,
            Grond. Clanging to ground it tumbled
            down like a thunder-bolt, and crumbled
            the rocks beneath it; smoke up-started,
            a pit yawned, and a fire darted.

            Fingolfin like a shooting light
            beneath a cloud, a stab of white,
            sprang then aside, and Ringil drew
            like ice that gleameth cold and blue,
            his sword devised of elvish skill
            to pierce the flesh with deadly chill.
            With seven wounds it rent his foe,
            and seven mighty cries of woe
            rang in the mountains, and the earth quook,
            and Angband's trembling armies shook.

            Yet Orcs would after laughing tell
            of the duel at the gates of hell;
            though elvish song thereof was made
            ere this but one - when sad was laid
            the mighty king in barrow high
            and Thorndor, Eagle of the sky,
            the dreadful tidings brought and told
            to mourning Elfinesse of old.
            Thrice was Fingolfin with great blows
            to his knees beaten, thrice he rose
            still leaping up beneath the cloud
            aloft to hold star-shining, proud,
            his stricken shield, his sundered helm,
            that dark nor might could overwhelm
            till all the earth was burst and rent
            in pits about him. He was spent.
            His feet stumbled. He fell to wreck
            upon the ground, and on his neck
            a foot like rooted hills was set,
            and he was crushed - not conquered yet;
            one last despairing stroke he gave:
            the mighty foot pale Ringil clave
            about the heel, and black the blood
            gushed as from smoking fount in flood.

            Halt goes for ever from that stroke
            great Morgoth; but the king he broke,
            and would have hewn and mangled thrown
            to wolves devouring. Lo! from throne
            that Manwë bade him build on high,
            on peak unscaled beneath the sky,
            Morgoth to watch, now down there swooped
            Thorndor the King of Eagles, stooped,
            and rending beak of gold he smote
            in Bauglir's face, then up did float
            on pinions thirty fathoms wide
            bearing away, though loud they cried,
            the mighty corse, the elven-king;
            and where the mountains make a ring
            far to the south about that plain
            where after Gondolin did reign,
            embattled city, at great height
            upon a dizzy snowcap white
            in mounded cairn the mighty dead
            he laid upon the mountain's head.
            Never Orc nor demon after dared
            that pass to climb, o'er which they stared
            Fingolfin's high and holy tomb,
            till Gondolin's appointed doom.