“Arise from sleep, although the night is meek And calm the breath of Earth below the stars, Into the space where thoughts and visions speak Where desire smoulders and disquiet jars. You Turgon, whom the Elves have called the Wise, Oh, hear the secret voice and heed its call A superb city on a hill will rise In mourning and destruction it will fall. O Finrod, in the caves beneath the hills The form of your desire will grow alive To feed the triumph of the flame that kills And no shadow of glory shall survive: The subtle spectre of distress draws near Awakening the siege of obscure fear.”