I

Tis told that as    the time grew near

and Sauron set  his schemes in place,

Ar-Pharazôn was    filled with pride. 

Yet he knew not    that no thing said

or deed then done    in his domain

by that time was his own.    The tree of white,

Nimloth the Fair,    would not be spared—

for Sauron’s set resolve    had sworn its end.

Verily, to Valinor    its vision turned the mind

and heart, and how    he hated every thought

of that undying land.    Under guise of flattery,

for subtle Sauron planned    and saw at last

the way by which his will    would come to pass,

he coaxed the king.    “Why keep you

this reminder of such rulers    in your realm?

You owe them no allegiance,    for ever do they seek

to supplant your power    and your people.

Cut down and cast away,    it cannot help but show

those watching in the West    that we will not

bow our heads,    nor bequeath to them

such servile scraping    as these self-called lords require.

Show forth the fierce    and fair design

of your own will.    Why do you wait?”

His voice was soft as silk,    as smooth as glass his tone.

No man of might could surely    mount defense against

such reasoned cause,    or raise the riot

when the axe was aimed    against the tree.

Yet Ar-Pharazôn at first    refused his urging.

Little did he love    the Lords of the West,

and deep was his desire    to divide his realm

from their sway.    But superstition held him,

though wisdom would have    warned the same

had Pharazôn not long ago    forsaken such an aid.

Too far he fled from grace,    and from his folly

no plea nor prayer    nor power could hold him.

Still, he harbored deep a fear    his house would fall

if did the tree.    Deciding not to dare the chance,

he sent no sign.    But Sauron waited.