A SPELL OF MUSIC
Voronwë tarries in Nan-tathren, the Land of Willow-meads.

Heady are the waters of Sirion, and quick. From the frozen crosses we have followed it down, under the northern sky. In the winter the fens of Aelin-Uial are icy and trackless, and though our haste was great we would not stray from the river.

But to see Falls of Sirion! What sight and sound, like the thunders of a great unceasing storm, its sprays glittering in the cold sun, shrouded in mist.

And beyond the Falls, most strange are these lands, these vales and hills, richer than the bare mountains of Nevrast.  Spring is come to us. Beasts and birds awake where the Narog joins Sirion and the waters slow. One by one my companions have gone before me yet I am loath to leave. The haste in my heart falters.

Nan-tathren of the bright streams, Nan-tathren of the thousand willows. Spring is come to your glades. I walk in stalks of song, and dream of the unmarred Arda that was. When spring was an everlasting dew on the arms of Yavanna and winter a ghost not yet thought of. Nan-tathren of the bright streams, Nan-tathren of the thousand willows. In the winding tresses of willow the music is a woven flood, innumerable and boundless. Especially in the starlight when I sit in the arms of grasses glistening.

Willow! In your green embrace I am a drop of opalized amber, caressed by your moonlit arms. In your kisses the cold has gone out, and only the exalting spring remains, older than winter, older than summer. Yavanna, Yavanna! Winter has come and gone. Your creatures shake themselves out of sleep. The willow leaves are harp strings in your hallowed hands.

I lie here in a lea of grass, and the Sea is a dream suddenly vanished -- as if I had been asleep in all the years of my life, walking in a waking dream. What of the Sea? A pale longing bereft of desire. Let me stay awhile, walking among the meadows, abiding in the spell of music. And after I have gone, let me walk here still, among the kissed grass and dreaming willow while the Sun yet last.