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Best Famous Ai Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Ai poems. This is a select list of the best famous Ai poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Ai poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of ai poems.

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Written by Pablo Neruda | Create an image from this poem

A Dog Has Died

 My dog has died.
I buried him in the garden next to a rusted old machine.
Some day I'll join him right there, but now he's gone with his shaggy coat, his bad manners and his cold nose, and I, the materialist, who never believed in any promised heaven in the sky for any human being, I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.
Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom where my dog waits for my arrival waving his fan-like tail in friendship.
Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth, of having lost a companion who was never servile.
His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine withholding its authority, was the friendship of a star, aloof, with no more intimacy than was called for, with no exaggerations: he never climbed all over my clothes filling me full of his hair or his mange, he never rubbed up against my knee like other dogs obsessed with sex.
No, my dog used to gaze at me, paying me the attention I need, the attention required to make a vain person like me understand that, being a dog, he was wasting time, but, with those eyes so much purer than mine, he'd keep on gazing at me with a look that reserved for me alone all his sweet and shaggy life, always near me, never troubling me, and asking nothing.
Ai, how many times have I envied his tail as we walked together on the shores of the sea in the lonely winter of Isla Negra where the wintering birds filled the sky and my hairy dog was jumping about full of the voltage of the sea's movement: my wandering dog, sniffing away with his golden tail held high, face to face with the ocean's spray.
Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.
There are no good-byes for my dog who has died, and we don't now and never did lie to each other.
So now he's gone and I buried him, and that's all there is to it.

Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem



Bad are the times.
And worse than they are we.
Troth, bad are both; worse fruit, and ill the tree: The feast of shepherds fail.
None crowns the cup Of wassail now, or sets the quintel up: And he, who used to lead the country-round, Youthful Mirtillo, here he comes, grief-drown'd.
Let's cheer him up.
Behold him weeping-ripe.
Ah, Amarillis! farewell mirth and pipe; Since thou art gone, no more I mean to play To these smooth lawns, my mirthful roundelay.
Dear Amarillis! MON.
Hark! SIL.
Mark! MIRT.
This earth grew sweet Where, Amarillis, thou didst set thy feet.
AMBO Poor pitied youth! MIRT.
And here the breath of kine And sheep grew more sweet by that breath of thine.
This dock of wool, and this rich lock of hair, This ball of cowslips, these she gave me here.
Words sweet as love itself.
Hark!-- MIRT.
This way she came, and this way too she went; How each thing smells divinely redolent! Like to a field of beans, when newly blown, Or like a meadow being lately mown.
A sweet sad passion---- MIRT.
In dewy mornings, when she came this way, Sweet bents would bow, to give my Love the day; And when at night she folded had her sheep, Daisies would shut, and closing, sigh and weep.
Besides (Ai me!) since she went hence to dwell, The Voice's Daughter ne'er spake syllable.
But she is gone.
Mirtillo, tell us whither? MIRT.
Where she and I shall never meet together.
Fore-fend it, Pan! and Pales, do thou please To give an end.
To what? SIL.
Such griefs as these.
Never, O never! Still I may endure The wound I suffer, never find a cure.
Love, for thy sake, will bring her to these hills And dales again.
No, I will languish still; And all the while my part shall be to weep; And with my sighs call home my bleating sheep; And in the rind of every comely tree I'll carve thy name, and in that name kiss thee.
Set with the sun, thy woes! SIL.
The day grows old; And time it is our full-fed flocks to fold.
The shades grow great; but greater grows our sorrow:-- But let's go steep Our eyes in sleep; And meet to weep To-morrow.
Written by J R R Tolkien | Create an image from this poem


 Ai! laurië lantar lassi súrinen,
Yéni únótimë ve rámar aldaron!
Yéni ve lintë yuldar avánier
Mi oromardi lissë-miruvóreva
Andúnë pella, Vardo tellumar
Nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni
Omaryo airetári-lírinen.
Sí man i yulma nin enquantuva? An sí Tintallë Varda Oiolossëo Ve fanyar máryat Elentári ortanë Ar ilyë tier undulávë lumbulë Ar sindanóriello caita mornië I falmalinnar imbë met, Ar hísië untúpa Calaciryo míri oialë.
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 long years have passed like swift draughts Of the sweet mead in lofty halls Beyond the West, beneath the blue vaults of Varda Wherein the stars tremble In the voice of her song, 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 for ever.
Now lost, lost to those of the East is Valimar! Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar! Maybe even thou shalt find it! Farewell!
Written by Denise Duhamel | Create an image from this poem


 There is a chimp named Ai who can count to five.
There's a poet named Ai whose selected poems Vice just won the National Book Award.
The name "Ai" is pronounced "I" so that whenever I talk about the poet Ai such as I'm teaching Ai's poems again this semester it sounds like I'm teaching my own poems or when I say I love Ai's work it sounds as if I'm saying I love my own poems but have poor grammar.
I haven't had a chance to talk much yet about this Japanese chimp who can arrange pictures in order of the number of objects contained in those pictures.
I just read about her for the first time yesterday, the fifth of January in the year 00 which I imagine would be a hard concept for Ai the chimp.
It feels weird writing 00 - I had to do it when I wrote my first check of the year 2000.
I think we should proclaim this year as the year of Olive Oyl, who is also an 00, but with letters instead of numbers.
I was in the Koko fan club for a while since I love gorillas, but then I moved around so much, the newsletters and requests for money stopped coming.
I wonder if Ai the poet is happy she shares a name with a gifted chimp.
To me, the most amazing thing about Ai the poet is she hardly ever writes an "I" poem about herself.
She crawls into the hearts of the cruelest men and writes about what it is like to be them, while I mostly curl in the bellies of the shattered women.
There's no evidence that one approach is better than the other.
There's no evidence that chimpanzees use numbers in the wild.
One expert said that perhaps chimpanzees count the number of predators they see.
I read on the web that John Wayne actually said, "I don't feel we did wrong in taking this great country away from them.
There were great numbers of people who needed new land, and the Indians were selfishly trying to keep it for themselves.
" So maybe chimps do count their enemies, to see if they have the advantage, but I'm a romantic - I like to think that Ai the poet and I mostly count our stanzas.
I like to think Ai the chimp mostly counts her bananas.
Written by Ai | Create an image from this poem


 We smile at each other
and I lean back against the wicker couch.
How does it feel to be dead? I say.
You touch my knees with your blue fingers.
And when you open your mouth, a ball of yellow light falls to the floor and burns a hole through it.
Don't tell me, I say.
I don't want to hear.
Did you ever, you start, wear a certain kind of dress and just by accident, so inconsequential you barely notice it, your fingers graze that dress and you hear the sound of a knife cutting paper, you see it too and you realize how that image is simply the extension of another image, that your own life is a chain of words that one day will snap.
Words, you say, young girls in a circle, holding hands, and beginning to rise heavenward in their confirmation dresses, like white helium balloons, the wreathes of flowers on their heads spinning, and above all that, that's where I'm floating, and that's what it's like only ten times clearer, ten times more horrible.
Could anyone alive survive it?

Written by Edwin Arlington Robinson | Create an image from this poem

An Island

 Take it away, and swallow it yourself.
Ha! Look you, there’s a rat.
Last night there were a dozen on that shelf, And two of them were living in my hat.
Look! Now he goes, but he’ll come back— Ha? But he will, I say … Il reviendra-z-à Pâques, Ou à la Trinité … Be very sure that he’ll return again; For said the Lord: Imprimis, we have rats, And having rats, we have rain.
— So on the seventh day He rested, and made Pain.
—Man, if you love the Lord, and if the Lord Love liars, I will have you at your word And swallow it.
Bah! Where do I say it is That I have lain so long? Where do I count myself among the dead, As once above the living and the strong? And what is this that comes and goes, Fades and swells and overflows, Like music underneath and overhead? What is it in me now that rings and roars Like fever-laden wine? What ruinous tavern-shine Is this that lights me far from worlds and wars And women that were mine? Where do I say it is That Time has made my bed? What lowering outland hostelry is this For one the stars have disinherited? An island, I have said: A peak, where fiery dreams and far desires Are rained on, like old fires: A vermin region by the stars abhorred, Where falls the flaming word By which I consecrate with unsuccess An acreage of God’s forgetfulness, Left here above the foam and long ago Made right for my duress; Where soon the sea, My foaming and long-clamoring enemy, Will have within the cryptic, old embrace Of her triumphant arms—a memory.
Why then, the place? What forage of the sky or of the shore Will make it any more, To me, than my award of what was left Of number, time, and space? And what is on me now that I should heed The durance or the silence or the scorn? I was the gardener who had the seed Which holds within its heart the food and fire That gives to man a glimpse of his desire; And I have tilled, indeed, Much land, where men may say that I have planted Unsparingly my corn— For a world harvest-haunted And for a world unborn.
Meanwhile, am I to view, as at a play, Through smoke the funeral flames of yesterday And think them far away? Am I to doubt and yet be given to know That where my demon guides me, there I go? An island? Be it so.
For islands, after all is said and done, Tell but a wilder game that was begun, When Fate, the mistress of iniquities, The mad Queen-spinner of all discrepancies, Beguiled the dyers of the dawn that day, And even in such a curst and sodden way Made my three colors one.
—So be it, and the way be as of old: So be the weary truth again retold Of great kings overthrown Because they would be kings, and lastly kings alone.
Fling to each dog his bone.
Flags that are vanished, flags that are soiled and furled, Say what will be the word when I am gone: What learned little acrid archive men Will burrow to find me out and burrow again,— But all for naught, unless To find there was another Island.
… Yes, There are too many islands in this world, There are too many rats, and there is too much rain.
So three things are made plain Between the sea and sky: Three separate parts of one thing, which is Pain … Bah, what a way to die!— To leave my Queen still spinning there on high, Still wondering, I dare say, To see me in this way … Madame à sa tour monte Si haut qu’elle peut monter— Like one of our Commissioners… ai! ai! Prometheus and the women have to cry, But no, not I … Faugh, what a way to die! But who are these that come and go Before me, shaking laurel as they pass? Laurel, to make me know For certain what they mean: That now my Fate, my Queen, Having found that she, by way of right reward, Will after madness go remembering, And laurel be as grass,— Remembers the one thing That she has left to bring.
The floor about me now is like a sward Grown royally.
Now it is like a sea That heaves with laurel heavily, Surrendering an outworn enmity For what has come to be.
But not for you, returning with your curled And haggish lips.
And why are you alone? Why do you stay when all the rest are gone? Why do you bring those treacherous eyes that reek With venom and hate the while you seek To make me understand?— Laurel from every land, Laurel, but not the world? Fury, or perjured Fate, or whatsoever, Tell me the bloodshot word that is your name And I will pledge remembrance of the same That shall be crossed out never; Whereby posterity May know, being told, that you have come to me, You and your tongueless train without a sound, With covetous hands and eyes and laurel all around, Foreshowing your endeavor To mirror me the demon of my days, To make me doubt him, loathe him, face to face.
Bowed with unwilling glory from the quest That was ordained and manifest, You shake it off and wish me joy of it? Laurel from every place, Laurel, but not the rest? Such are the words in you that I divine, Such are the words of men.
So be it, and what then? Poor, tottering counterfeit, Are you a thing to tell me what is mine? Grant we the demon sees An inch beyond the line, What comes of mine and thine? A thousand here and there may shriek and freeze, Or they may starve in fine.
The Old Physician has a crimson cure For such as these, And ages after ages will endure The minims of it that are victories.
The wreath may go from brow to brow, The state may flourish, flame, and cease; But through the fury and the flood somehow The demons are acquainted and at ease, And somewhat hard to please.
Mine, I believe, is laughing at me now In his primordial way, Quite as he laughed of old at Hannibal, Or rather at Alexander, let us say.
Therefore, be what you may, Time has no further need Of you, or of your breed.
My demon, irretrievably astray, Has ruined the last chorus of a play That will, so he avers, be played again some day; And you, poor glowering ghost, Have staggered under laurel here to boast Above me, dying, while you lean In triumph awkward and unclean, About some words of his that you have read? Thing, do I not know them all? He tells me how the storied leaves that fall Are tramped on, being dead? They are sometimes: with a storm foul enough They are seized alive and they are blown far off To mould on islands.
—What else have you read? He tells me that great kings look very small When they are put to bed; And this being said, He tells me that the battles I have won Are not my own, But his—howbeit fame will yet atone For all defect, and sheave the mystery: The follies and the slaughters I have done Are mine alone, And so far History.
So be the tale again retold And leaf by clinging leaf unrolled Where I have written in the dawn, With ink that fades anon, Like Cæsar’s, and the way be as of old.
Ho, is it you? I thought you were a ghost.
Is it time for you to poison me again? Well, here’s our friend the rain,— Mironton, mironton, mirontaine.
Man, I could murder you almost, You with your pills and toast.
Take it away and eat it, and shoot rats.
Ha! there he comes.
Your rat will never fail, My punctual assassin, to prevail— While he has power to crawl, Or teeth to gnaw withal— Where kings are caged.
Why has a king no cats? You say that I’ll achieve it if I try? Swallow it?—No, not I … God, what a way to die!
Written by T S (Thomas Stearns) Eliot | Create an image from this poem

Dans le Restaurant

 LE garçon délabré qui n’a rien à faire
Que de se gratter les doigts et se pencher sur mon épaule:
“Dans mon pays il fera temps pluvieux,
Du vent, du grand soleil, et de la pluie;
C’est ce qu’on appelle le jour de lessive des gueux.
” (Bavard, baveux, à la croupe arrondie, Je te prie, au moins, ne bave pas dans la soupe).
“Les saules trempés, et des bourgeons sur les ronces— C’est là, dans une averse, qu’on s’abrite.
J’avais sept ans, elle était plus petite.
Elle était toute mouillée, je lui ai donné des primevères.
” Les taches de son gilet montent au chiffre de trentehuit.
“Je la chatouillais, pour la faire rire.
J’éprouvais un instant de puissance et de délire.
” Mais alors, vieux lubrique, à cet âge.
“Monsieur, le fait est dur.
Il est venu, nous peloter, un gros chien; Moi j’avais peur, je l’ai quittée à mi-chemin.
C’est dommage.
” Mais alors, tu as ton vautour! Va t’en te décrotter les rides du visage; Tiens, ma fourchette, décrasse-toi le crâne.
De quel droit payes-tu des expériences comme moi? Tiens, voilà dix sous, pour la salle-de-bains.
Phlébas, le Phénicien, pendant quinze jours noyé, Oubliait les cris des mouettes et la houle de Cornouaille, Et les profits et les pertes, et la cargaison d’étain: Un courant de sous-mer l’emporta très loin, Le repassant aux étapes de sa vie antérieure.
Figurez-vous donc, c’était un sort pénible; Cependant, ce fut jadis un bel homme, de haute taille.
Written by William Butler Yeats | Create an image from this poem

The Old Age Of Queen Maeve

 A certain poet in outlandish clothes
Gathered a crowd in some Byzantine lane,
Talked1 of his country and its people, sang
To some stringed instrument none there had seen,
A wall behind his back, over his head
A latticed window.
His glance went up at time As though one listened there, and his voice sank Or let its meaning mix into the strings.
Maeve the great queen was pacing to and fro, Between the walls covered with beaten bronze, In her high house at Cruachan; the long hearth, Flickering with ash and hazel, but half showed Where the tired horse-boys lay upon the rushes, Or on the benches underneath the walls, In comfortable sleep; all living slept But that great queen, who more than half the night Had paced from door to fire and fire to door.
Though now in her old age, in her young age She had been beautiful in that old way That's all but gone; for the proud heart is gone, And the fool heart of the counting-house fears all But Soft beauty and indolent desire.
She could have called over the rim of the world Whatever woman's lover had hit her fancy, And yet had been great-bodied and great-limbed, Fashioned to be the mother of strong children; And she'd had lucky eyes and high heart, And wisdom that caught fire like the dried flax, At need, and made her beautiful and fierce, Sudden and laughing.
O unquiet heart, Why do you praise another, praising her, As if there were no tale but your own tale Worth knitting to a measure of sweet sound? Have I not bid you tell of that great queen Who has been buried some two thousand years? When night was at its deepest, a wild goose Cried from the porter's lodge, and with long clamour' Shook the ale-horns and shields upon their hooks; But the horse-boys slept on, as though some power Had filled the house with Druid heaviness; And wondering who of the many-changing Sidhe Had come as in the old times to counsel her, Maeve walked, yet with slow footfall, being old, To that small chamber by the outer gate.
The porter slept, although he sat upright With still and stony limbs and open eyes.
Maeve waited, and when that ear-piercing noise Broke from his parted lips and broke again, She laid a hand on either of his shoulders, And shook him wide awake, and bid him say Who of the wandering many-changing ones Had troubled his sleep.
But all he had to say Was that, the air being heavy and the dogs More still than they had been for a good month, He had fallen asleep, and, though he had dreamed nothing, He could remember when he had had fine dreams.
It was before the time of the great war Over the White-Horned Bull and the Brown Bull.
She turned away; he turned again to sleep That no god troubled now, and, wondering What matters were afoot among the Sidhe, Maeve walked through that great hall, and with a sigh Lifted the curtain of her sleeping-room, Remembering that she too had seemed divine To many thousand eyes, and to her own One that the generations had long waited That work too difficult for mortal hands Might be accomplished, Bunching the curtain up She saw her husband Ailell sleeping there, And thought of days when he'd had a straight body, And of that famous Fergus, Nessa's husband, Who had been the lover of her middle life.
Suddenly Ailell spoke out of his sleep, And not with his own voice or a man's voice, But with the burning, live, unshaken voice Of those that, it may be, can never age.
He said, 'High Queen of Cruachan and Magh Ai, A king of the Great Plain would speak with you.
' And with glad voice Maeve answered him, 'What king Of the far-wandering shadows has come to me, As in the old days when they would come and go About my threshold to counsel and to help?' The parted lips replied, 'I seek your help, For I am Aengus, and I am crossed in love.
' 'How may a mortal whose life gutters out Help them that wander with hand clasping hand, Their haughty images that cannot wither, For all their beauty's like a hollow dream, Mirrored in streams that neither hail nor rain Nor the cold North has troubled?' He replied, 'I am from those rivers and I bid you call The children of the Maines out of sleep, And set them digging under Bual's hill.
We shadows, while they uproot his earthy housc, Will overthrow his shadows and carry off Caer, his blue-eyed daughter that I love.
I helped your fathers when they built these walls, And I would have your help in my great need, Queen of high Cruachan.
' 'I obey your will With speedy feet and a most thankful heart: For you have been, O Aengus of the birds, Our giver of good counsel and good luck.
' And with a groan, as if the mortal breath Could but awaken sadly upon lips That happier breath had moved, her husband turned Face downward, tossing in a troubled sleep; But Maeve, and not with a slow feeble foot, Came to the threshold of the painted house Where her grandchildren slept, and cried aloud, Until the pillared dark began to stir With shouting and the clang of unhooked arms.
She told them of the many-changing ones; And all that night, and all through the next day To middle night, they dug into the hill.
At middle night great cats with silver claws, Bodies of shadow and blind eyes like pearls, Came up out of the hole, and red-eared hounds With long white bodies came out of the air Suddenly, and ran at them and harried them.
The Maines' children dropped their spades, and stood With quaking joints and terror-stricken faces, Till Maeve called out, 'These are but common men.
The Maines' children have not dropped their spades Because Earth, crazy for its broken power, Casts up a Show and the winds answer it With holy shadows.
' Her high heart was glad, And when the uproar ran along the grass She followed with light footfall in the midst, Till it died out where an old thorn-tree stood.
Friend of these many years, you too had stood With equal courage in that whirling rout; For you, although you've not her wandering heart, Have all that greatness, and not hers alone, For there is no high story about queens In any ancient book but tells of you; And when I've heard how they grew old and died, Or fell into unhappiness, I've said, 'She will grow old and die, and she has wept!' And when I'd write it out anew, the words, Half crazy with the thought, She too has wept! Outrun the measure.
I'd tell of that great queen Who stood amid a silence by the thorn Until two lovers came out of the air With bodies made out of soft fire.
The one, About whose face birds wagged their fiery wings, Said, 'Aengus and his sweetheart give their thanks To Maeve and to Maeve's household, owing all In owing them the bride-bed that gives peace.
' Then Maeve: 'O Aengus, Master of all lovers, A thousand years ago you held high ralk With the first kings of many-pillared Cruachan.
O when will you grow weary?' They had vanished, But our of the dark air over her head there came A murmur of soft words and meeting lips.
Written by Robert Herrick | Create an image from this poem


For a kiss or two, confess, What doth cause this pensiveness, Thou most lovely neat-herdess? Why so lonely on the hill? Why thy pipe by thee so still, That erewhile was heard so shrill? Tell me, do thy kine now fail To fulfil the milking-pail? Say, what is't that thou dost ail? THYR.
None of these; but out, alas! A mischance is come to pass, And I'll tell thee what it was: See, mine eyes are weeping ripe.
Tell, and I'll lay down my pipe.
I have lost my lovely steer, That to me was far more dear Than these kine which I milk here; Broad of forehead, large of eye, Party-colour'd like a pye, Smooth in each limb as a die; Clear of hoof, and clear of horn, Sharply pointed as a thorn; With a neck by yoke unworn, From the which hung down by strings, Balls of cowslips, daisy rings, Interplaced with ribbonings; Faultless every way for shape; Not a straw could him escape, Ever gamesome as an ape, But yet harmless as a sheep.
Pardon, Lacon, if I weep; Tears will spring where woes are deep.
Now, ai me! ai me! Last night Came a mad dog, and did bite, Ay, and kill'd my dear delight.
LACON Alack, for grief! THYR.
But I'll be brief.
Hence I must, for time doth call Me, and my sad playmates all, To his evening funeral.
Live long, Lacon; so adieu! LACON Mournful maid, farewell to you; Earth afford ye flowers to strew!
Written by J R R Tolkien | Create an image from this poem


 Snow-white! Snow-white! O lady clear!
O Queen beyond the Western Sea!
O Light to us that wander here
Amid the world of woven trees!

Gilthoniel! O Elbereth!
Clear are thy eyes and bright thy breath.
Snow-white! Snow-white! We sing to thee In a far land beyond the Sea.
O stars that in the Sunless Year With shining hand by her were sown, In windy fields now bright and clear We see your silver blossom blown.
O Elbereth! Gilthoniel! We still remember, we who dwell In this far land beneath the trees, Thy starlight on the Western Seas.
A Elbereth Gilthoniel, Silivren penna miriel O menal aglar elenath! Na-chaered palan-diriel O galadhremmin ennorath, Fanuilos, le linnathon nef aear, si nef aearon! Ai! laurie lantar lassi surinen! Yeni unotime ve ramar aldaron, Yeni ve linte yuldar vanier Mi oromardi lisse-miruvoreva Andune pella Vardo tellumar Nu luini yassen tintilar i eleni Omaryo airetari-lirinen.
Si man i yulma nin enquantuva? An si Tintalle Varda Oilosseo Ve fanyar maryat Elentari ortane, Ar ilye tier undulare lumbule; Ar sindanoriello caita mornie I falmalinnar imbe met, ar hisie Untupa Calaciryo miri oiale.
Si vanwa na, Romello vanwa, Valimar! Namarie! Nai hiruvalye Valimar.
Nai elye hiruva.
Namarie! Ah! Like gold fall the leaves in the wind, Long years numberless as the wings of trees! The long years have passed like swift draughts of the sweet mead In lofty halls beyond the West Beneath the blue 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 for ever.
Now lost, lost to those from the East is Valimar! Farewell! Maybe thou shalt find Valimar.
Maybe even thou shalt find it! Farewell! Gilthoniel A Elbereth! A Elbereth Gilthoniel O menel palan-diriel, Le nallon si dinguruthos! A tiro nin, Fanuilos! A! Elbereth Gilthoniel! Silivren penna miriel O menal aglar elenath, Gilthoniel, A! Elbereth! We still remember, we who dwell In this far land beneath the trees Thy starlight on the Western Seas.