Fell darkness lay on all Aman
And Endor in the east;
The Trees were slain, the silver and
The gold, by Death, whose poison ran
Through Melkor’s spider-beast.

Yavanna sang near those dry shoots,
And hope dawned in the night:
As Fui wept on blackened roots,
One silver bloom and golden fruit
Blazed forth in blinding light.

Aulë wrought vessels meant to bear
Those lights across the skies;
The Valar chose a Maia fair
Named Arien, with fiery hair
And flaming golden eyes.

She, then, would guide Anar the Sun,
To mark the length of days,
Yet in her time; the other one,
Isil the Moon, would firstly run
Along those lofty ways.

A hunter-Maia, Tilion,
Fair begged to guide the Moon:
His heart was ever goaded on
By love for Arien, who shone
And set his heart to swoon.

Tilion, clad in silver fair,
With horns upon his head,
Soon joined the stars hung in the air;
And he pursued them here and there,
Though fearfully they fled.

Seven times he had ringed the world
When Anar rose as well,
Her golden glory all unfurled.
The shadows fled, and cringing curled
Like demons back to hell.

Tilion hovered still to see
How splendid was her shine–
Then speeding in her wake did he
Pursue and call her ardently:
“Fair Arien, be mine!”

Arien halted not her flight,
But turned her eyes; and now
She looked upon the earnest wight
As he stood robed in silver light
With horns upon his brow.

“No, no!” she cried. “I have no want
For you or any other!
Myself is mine–now go and haunt
One who would hear; or if this daunts
You not, to your shame, brother!”

Tilion’s heart would not be swayed,
For love had made him blind.
Time and again he dourly made
His way to her, and keenly prayed
For repayment in kind.

The Sun struck out with tongues of flame
And seared his longing hands;
But undeterred by thought of shame
He reached again, and nearer came
To counter her demands.

“Away with you!” cried Arien.
“Can you not hear my voice?
I love you not!” And turning then
She sped across the high heaven,
Cursing her kinsman’s choice.

Tilion called out, high and shrill,
As dusk turned skies to red:
“Love, sear and scorch me, as you will,
But ever know I love you still!”
He turned and downward fled.

Deep in the bowels of the earth,
‘Midst rock and rock he wept;
The stone rang back in callous mirth
At his distress, while without berth
He roved, and Arda slept.

He rose again, returning late
To his celestial path;
Then Morgoth sent up spirits great,
With hearts that blazed cold fires of hate:
They warred with him in wrath.

Tilion fought with silver bow
And arrows swift and keen:
Some of the demons he laid low,
Yet caused the others’ rage to grow
As great as those had been.

The Moon was darkened in that fight
Whenever hate availed;
Still Tilion upheld the light
That gleamed amid the starry night,
And soon the demons failed.

So Time passed on, and fiery days
Swept onward in their course;
And nights led elves to sing in praise
For Varda’s stars, and ask her gaze
To be a guiding force.

Bold Tilion was never turned
From his heart’s deep desires:
Although the Sun forever burned
And all his madrigals were spurned,
He ever braved those fires.

But who knows what the end will bring,
Or what the future holds?
Mayhaps in time the bards will sing
A heart of silver mingling
At last with one of gold.

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