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How oft I watched beneath the moon

my king gaze out over wood and lawn

or ride singing a merry tune,

until, his brand for battle drawn,

he fell, come a midsummer dawn.

AND

Who sees now if the mountains green

still cradle castle-ruins grey?

Who sees now if the boughs between

the lake-shore gleams each desolate day?

Above the slain, the grass is green.

They trod his banner in the clay!

How beautifully sorrowful this reads. And Fingon, one of the most heartbreaking ends...