“Tall grow the trees from forod to harad,
In the dark depths of Mirkwood!
Tall—”

Her eyelids flickered.

“Híril nín?” Legolas bent closer, searching her marble-smooth face for any sign of awareness. “Eowyn?”

He had lost count of the nights he had spent at her bedside, watching, whilst his mortal friends—her brother and the Steward of Gondor—slept; sitting at her side without fear of being seen.

“Choose to live, Eowyn nín,” he whispered, gently stroking her battered shield arm. “And I will show you a darkness that can heal.

“Come live with me and be my love…”

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of th’purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherds’ swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love,

Published posthumously in 1599.