The lay of the spring in the rustle of pine-trees old;
Take up a lute, drive away the fog in the dale,
Write down the runes on a wall with knife and charcoal.
In feathery trickles the mist twines about my hair.
I face the cold, do not fear a tiresome way.
In voice of strings there flower patterns of flare,
The truth does live in the lines of an ancient tale.
Why must I fear? I am ice and silvery hoar.
And never on earth could a sparklet burn down a rock.
Like white-scaled dragons the snowy flurries roar.
My shoulders bent have not the wings of the fog.
Though I 'm not a god and my power is not in flame,
And serpents of snowy whirls sweep away my trace.
But Winter, the Queen of the dead, will not ever reign.
I sing the glory of Spring and She does answer my praise.
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.