The north-march by losselen

The days run short;
I stand alone on the threshold.

I see the calvary and foot-soldiers
marching north.
Their spears glitter in the cold
sun like a shivering forest.
Their horses flash
on the mountain pass.
They go to the long watch
on the Shadow that sleeps but dies not.

The Elves do not tire
of the war that stands before us like a beast;
but where do we number
among the machines of war
that the Noldor keep
burning in the passing darkness?

When the wind walks
into our keeps and halls
like a sword thrust through the bark,
I wander beneath the night-helm;

how—between the cruel
wolf and the crow that
circles above the reek
shall I not think ever
of the falling years, falling ever
like the sly turning of day into night
like springtime falling
into the mortal winter.

And I, in body a maid,
daughter of chiefs of Men,
what night waits for me,
at the bottom of the mead-cup
at the last rung of winter
where the wolf and crow both lie asleep—
what grace for I, with no love but grief
no shield or halberd
no solace in deed or arms?

Naught but these for me:
the woods and glens of Ladros,
that yearly yield the good grain;
the candle and quill that light
my words; the shepherd’s sheep
and the cowherd’s cattle;
the apple that falls from
the topmost bough
among the long rows in the orchard,
that falls onto the earth
in the turning autumn.

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