Mourn, Nightingale, your lament of tears.
Long have passed our numbered years
under the sky of Middle-earth.
We yearn for the first days’ mirth!:
The song, the dance, the peace forever.
Mourn, Nightingale, amidst the heather.
Pray, tell of the fair, white shores
and the great city in Valinor.
That land in wrath, we forsook,
never again upon it to look.
Mourn, Nightingale, of Elbereth’s light
and its loss for our rash flight
from the land of peace we loved and knew,
ever to wander here in rue.
Ai! We fade away in sorrow great!
Mourn, Nightingale, for the Elves’ sad fate.