The Lay of Leithian – Canto VI J. R. R. Tolkien

So days drew on from the mournful day;
the curse of silence no more lay
on Doriath, though Daeron's flute
and Lúthien's singing both were mute.
The murmurs soft awake once more
about the woods, the waters roar
past the great gates of Thingol's halls;
but no dancing step of Lúthien falls
on turf or leaf. For she forlorn,
where stumbled once, where bruised and torn,
with longing on him like a dream,
had Beren sat by the shrouded stream
Esgalduin the dark and strong,
shе sat and mourned in a low song:
'Endless roll the watеrs past!
To this my love hath come at last,
enchanted waters pitiless,
a heartache and a loneliness.'

The summer turns. In branches tall
she hears the pattering raindrops fall,
the windy tide in leafy seas,
the creaking of the countless trees;
and longs unceasing and in vain
to hear one calling once again
the tender name that nightingales
were called of old. Echo fails.
'Tinúviel! Tinúviel!'
the memory is like a knell,
a faint and far-off tolling bell:
'Tinúviel! Tinúviel!'