O, Idril, maiden fair and blest,
since first thy gentle golden glance
shone on me that first day, in chance;
how hast thou sung my heart to rest!

For when at last I beheld thee,
the sun from which thy father’s hall
drew all its light, unending call
thy beauty placed for e’er on me.

And for a while on thee I gazed,
and at each glance my heart would soar
and look no more on days of yore
but only on thy face, amazed.

And when my ear hath caught the sound
of all the words thy lips have told,
I whispered them yet manifold
until their fame was spread around.

And in my dreams each darkened night
thy golden face would then appear
and sing away each doubt and fear,
for in my darkness thou art light.

Many a heart has loved thee well,
remembering all thy noble deeds;
intoxicated by thy meads,
I’m swept in tide of thy heart’s swell.

But whenever we are both alone
thy gentle eyes do mine avoid,
from all my wooing art devoid,
and turn from me as cold, hard stone.

When thou belong to me at last,
to all this city fair my Queen,
I’ll stroke thy bright hair’s golden sheen
as I could not do in the past.