Found Poetry by Magic Dreamer


For the one who aided the growth of our beloved Gandalf.



The Scourge of Moria

Something came into the chamber
Dark as cloud blocking out all the light
Dark figure streaming with fire
Power, terror seemed to be in it
And yet go before it.

A great shadow; fiery shadow
It reached out like two vast wings
Spread from wall to wall.
In the middle was a dark form,
Of man-shape maybe, yet greater.

Streaming mane kindled, and blazed
It raced towards them.

Ai, ai! A Balrog! A Balrog is come!
Flame of Udun; Durin’s Bane.

For Haldir:

The Marchwarden Speaks

Out of a thicket an Elf stepped,
Clad in grey, his hair glinted like gold
He spoke words of welcome in the elven-tongue

“We seldom use any tongue but our own
But some of us still who go abroad,
and speak languages of other lands,
I am one; Haldir is my name”

“We dwell now in the heart
Of the forest; Fair Lothlorien
And not willingly have dealings with other folk”

“Some sing that peace shall come again
Yet I do not believe that the world
Will ever again be as it was aforetime
It would be a poor life
In a land where no mallorn grew”


Elven-cloaks


A hood and cloak to each
Fair garments, the web good
Fastened about the neck with a brooch
Like a green leaf veined with silver.

Grey, the hue of twilight under the trees
Yet if moved or set in another light,
Were green as shadowed leaves, or
Brown as fallow fields by night,
Dusk silver as water under stars

Pippin looking at them in wonder
Are these magic cloaks?
They are elvish robes certainly
Light to wear, warm enough or cool enough

Made in this land
Leaf and branch, water and stone
These things that we love
They have the hue and beauty of all
For we put the thought of all
That we love into all that we make.

Yet they are garments not armour
they will not turn shaft or blade
You will find them a great aid
Keeping out of the sight of unfriendly eyes

High in the favour of the Lady
Never before have we clad strangers
In the garb of our own people.
She and her maidens wove this stuff
Their elven-cloaks.


The Last House

Hidden is the fair valley of Rivendell
where Elrond lives in the Last Homely House.
Evil things did not come into that valley.
The only path marked with white stones.

Bilbo’s pony, guided by Gandalf,
came to the brink of the deep valley
the scent of trees was in the air;
the voice of water in a rocky bed;
there was a light across the water.

The Last Homely House west of the Mountains

His house was perfect, whether you liked food,
sleep, work, story-telling, singing, or just sitting
and thinking or a pleasant mixture of all.
Merely to be there was a cure
for weariness, fear, and sadness.



Master of the House

In those days, there were still some people
who had for ancestors both elves and heroes
Elrond, master of the house, was their chief.

The master of the house was an elf-friend.
Noble and as fair as an elf-lord -
the face was ageless, neither old nor young,
in it was written things glad and sorrowful.
Venerable as a king crowned with many winters,
Hale, a warrior in the fullness of strength;
Wise as a wizard, as kind as summer.

His hair was dark as shadows of twilight,
upon it, a circlet of silver.
His eyes were grey as a clear evening,
in them was the light of stars.
Upon his finger, a ring of gold with
a great blue stone, Vilya mightiest of Three.

I have seen three ages of the world...
I was the herald of Gil-galad
and marched at the battle of Dagorlad.
I beheld the last combat on the slopes
of Orodruin, where Sauron himself was overthrown.

Earendil was my sire, who was born in Gondolin
before it’s fall; and my mother was Elwing,
daughter of Dior, son of Luthien of Doriath.

It is said, the might of Elrond
is in wisdom not in weapons.
A master of healing, Greatest of lore-masters...
Halfelven, he was.
Lord of Rivendell
And mighty among both Elves and Men.

- Magic Dreamer