By evening’s hearth the mellow sounds of flute
over-rise the crackling fire—night imbued,
with light on Elven hands that skillful play,
and woman who sings of yesterdays.
A lingering note falls to silence. The fire spits,
And he opens his hand and gives to her gleaming
A pearl black as hidden paths unlit
of sunless deeps. Now comes the word-borne wind
of voyages past that tangles her hair and wakes
the far off waves. There the new-risen moon illumines
the shivering tunnels and yawning sea-caves
where once engorged Ungoliant devoured,
the scarred and gaping earth. There undiscovered
for fading ages lay the darksome pearl.
The air is thick with story-fed silence,
but she thinks not of seas nor treasure’s fair brilliance,
but the pearl smooth, the dying flames now mute,
and his hand that rests on the carven flute.
