Hérna er ljóð eftir einn þekktasta höfund okkar tíma, hann m.a. bjó til Miðgarð (Middle-earth) og hérna er eitt ljóð úr smiðju hans. Fyrst kemur það á álfísku og svo á ensku.


Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,
yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!
Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier
mi oromardi lisse-miruvóreva
Andúnë pella, vardo tellumar
nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni
ómaryo airetári-lírinen.

Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva?

An sí Tintallë Varde Oiolossë
ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë,
ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë;
ar sindanóriello caita morinë
i falmalinnar imbëmet, ar hísë
untúpa Calaciryo míri oilalë.
Sí vanwa ná, Rómello vanwa, Valimar!

Namárië! Nai hiruvalyë Valimar.
Nai elyë hiruva. Namárië!

———————————————

Ah! like gold fall the leaves in the wind,
long years numberless as the wings of trees!
The years have passed like swift draughts
of the sweet mead in
lofty halls beyond the West,
beneath the Orange vaults of Varda
wherein the stars tremble
in the song of her voice, holy and queenly.

Who now shall refill the cup for me?

For now the Kindler, Varda, the Queen of the Stars, from Mount Everwhite
has uplifted her hands like clouds,
and all paths are drowned deep in shadow;
and out of a grey country darkness lies
on the foaming waves between us, and mist
covers the jewels of Calacirya forever.
Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar!

Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar.
Maybe even thou shalt find it. Farewell!


Þetta ljóð er úr Hringadróttinssögu (Lord of the Rings) og Galadríel fór með þetta ljóð þegar förunautið yfirgaf Lothlóríen.