How far away? As far as flame from ice.
The swan-ships burn, the sea-waves rise in wrath,
And Maedhros thinks, This cannot be undone;
But Fingon treads that cold and bitter path,
And flowers rise before the new-born Sun.

How far away? As far as pain from hope.
Dark smoke and vapors hide the light of day;
Bereft and weary, Fingon searches long.
He lifts his harp-and faint and far away,
He hears a song in answer to his song.

How far away? As far as east from west.
Anfauglith stretches like a gash between;
Beset by wine and silence and despair,
Words fail them, and they say not what they mean,
And Fingon holds a single copper hair.

How far away? As far as death from life.
"The day has come!"-Fingon's triumphant shout-
But triumph shatters against Angband's walls,
And Maedhros wakes to find his light gone out,
And wields a bloodied sword, and falls-and falls-

How far away? As far as life from death.
No journey and no prayer, no harp and sword
May open Mandos' dark relentless gates;
And Maedhros burns, ears deaf to Námo's word,
And Fingon builds a house, and waits-and waits . . .

How far away? As close as hand and hand.
The Sun grows old, and Vairë tends her loom,
And Fingon prays upon the mountain's height . . .
And two asleep within a quiet room,
And day is blessed, and also blessed the night.


The last line is meant to reference Frodo's words in The Return of the King: "Now not day only shall be beloved, but night too shall be beautiful and blessed and all its fear pass away!"