So gathered they were to Bree, what lieutenants who could be spared, from their scattered watches west and east, for their chieftain had returned from his long sojourn in lands godless and mountains strange.

Aragorn returns from the South to tells his tales. Halbarad listens.

Here is a song called Of Finrod and Bëor as was sung in Rivendell in the Third Age of the world. It is but a fragment from the Lay of Felagund, which told the story of Finrod Felagund in full. It was first cast into Sindarin in Imladris by some of the High Elves who dwelt there for a time, and later into Westron.

I: Of Finrod tarrying in Ossiriand
III. Of Finrod spying Men in the woods
III: Of Finrod's song of Valinor
IV: Of the waking of Men and the conversation of Finrod and Bëor
V: Of the disquiet of the Green-elves and the passing of Men into Beleriand
VI: Of the death of Finrod Felagund and the deeds of the House of Bëor
Coda

“Come, Faramir. Let us not stand in ceremony. I think words are due between you and I, and not only those between a King and his Steward.”

Faramir has speech with Gandalf and his King.

The arrow shoots straight, but in the brief arc of its flight, it flexes ever this way and that, undulating in the air as if straining against the bonds of its mark. And yet what mark it finds, it finds, and strays not from its fate, and so do you, Túrin, in all your struggles, bend ever toward your doom.

Thrice would Beleg find Túrin in the wild unbidden. Beleg/Túrin.

Found in the personal collections of Barahir II, transcribed and translated into Westron from its original High Adûnaic. A fragment of a poem for Ancalimë, from a poetess who loved her.

A poem for Andreth in Ladros, in the long years of the Siege of Angband.

For everything there is a season. Multi-age. Multiple characters.

A poem for Finrod.

Olwë on the Kinslaying.

What song might have been sung of Maglor, at the breaking of the world.

Two sonnets for Daeron: one for his joy and youth in Doriath, and one for his exile in Eriador, searching in vain for Lúthien.

What Maglor, in both obdurate pride and grievous lament, might have sung of the Silmaril. In blank verse unrhymed, after Paradise Lost.