A Farewell To Éowyn
Farewell, Éowyn, the Lady of the Mark!
Now west winds by the Fords of Isen call
across the Misty Mountains high and dark,
and I must leave the lofty Golden Hall
of Meduseld, just like a parting lark
in sailing south when summer turns to fall.
Farewell, Éowyn! But so much I will miss
the golden streams rolling down from your hair,
the face so gallant in woe and in bliss,
the snow-white woolen gown you ever wear,
the hands that trembled under my light kiss
but firmly wielded the sword of Rohan fair!
Farewell, Éowyn! On the Pelennor Field,
in a doomed day, yet not so much afar,
a slender girl with sword and shattered shield
had checked and slain the witch king of Angmar.
Be rest now, wounded Éowyn, and be healed:
it's now our part to fight this holy war. Farewell, Éowyn! The flags are fluttering high.
The Rohirrim are gathering in mass.
The glorious green standards proudly fly
across Calenardhon, from Edoras
to the Anduin, and shake the gloomy sky
the ancient battle cries "Forth Eorlingas!" Farewell, Éowyn! I love you, love you so
much as I love the vast Westemnet plain.
But for the sake of Rohan I must go
to fight the foes, the right cause to sustain.
For you and Rohan, oh please hear my vow
that I would glad to drain my dearest vein! Farewell, Éowyn! We now leave for Mordor
devastated in terrors and in fears.
Should I at Morannon fall in my gore
or should I come back after myriad years,
I never could forget Éowyn of yore!
Namárië! A rohir knows not tears.
2006/01/18
