Alas, alas, the world is dying,

Or fading into deepest slumber,

The leaves, the leaves, the leaves are flying,

I cannot count them, nor know their number.

The maples, the maples, the maples are moaning,

As they are forced by the gales to bend,

The oaks, the oaks, the oaks are groaning,

Groaning for the winter to end.

“Alone, alone, alone!” cries an empty nest,

That lay upon a dying bough,

“Where, where, where is the robin with the scarlet breast?

Or his mate that I use to know?”

The Spring, the Spring, the Spring is dead,

What was once enthroned is now entombed,

The Winter, the Winter, the Winter has reared its repulsive head,

Everything that once was green is now consumed.

The firs, the firs, the firs are green,

A living token of Winter’s coming doom,

A hope, a hope, a hope that is seen,

For Spring is going to rise from its tomb.

Oh, that it would rise soon.

The High-Elves of the House of Elrond

As recorded by Elijah Ballard