Tolkien wrote many poems and songs and used them in his books. Here you can read some of them. Only some of the names which are given to the poems are the names that Tolkien himself gave. When we couldn't find a name, we have added one ourselves.

You & Me and the Cottage of Lost Play / The Little House of Lost PLay

The fist verion "You & Me and the Cottage of Lost Play" was written by Tolkien in 1915 when he was 23 years old. Later he changed the poem and the last version he called "The Little house of Lost Play". It tells about the Cottage of Lost Play, where Eriol, a seafarer, listened to the Tales about the Elves which were told him by the people who lived in that Cottage. The Cottage layed upon the isle Tol Eressea.

We knew thatland once, you and I, / and once we wandered there

In the long days now long gone by, / a dark child and a fair.

Was it on the path of firelight thought / in winter cold and white,

or in the blue-spun twilit hours / of little early tucked-up beds

in drowsy summer night / that you and I in sleep went down

to meet each other there, / you dark hair on your white nightgown

and mine was tangled fair ? / We wandered shyly hand in hand,

small footprints in the golden sand, / and gathered pearls and shells in pails,

while all about the nightingales / were singin in the trees.

We duged for silver with our spades / and caught the sparkle of the seas,

then ran ashore to greenlit glades / and found the warm and linding lane

that now we cannot find again / between tall whispering trees.

The air was neither night nor day, / and ever-eve of gloaming light,

when first there glimmered into sight / the Litte House of Play.

New-built it was, yet very old / white, and thatched with straws of gold,

and pierced with peeping lattices / that looked towards the see;

and our own children garden-plots/ were there: our own forgetmenot

red daisies, cress and mustard, / and radishes for tea.

There all the borders trimmed with box/ were filled with favourite flowers, with phlox,

with lupins, pinks, and holyyshocks, / beneath a red may-tree;

and all the gardens full of folk / that their own little language spoke,

but not to You and Me.

For some had silver watering-cans, / and watered all their gowns,

or sprayed each other , some laid plans / to build their houses, little towns

and dwelling in the trees. / And some were clambering on the roof

some crooning lonely and aloof; / some dancing round the fairy-rings

all garlanded in daisy-strings/ while some upon her knees

before a litte white robed king / crowned with marigold would sing

their rhymes of long ago. / But side by side a little pair

with heads together, mingled hair/ went walking to and fro

still hand in hand; and what they said / ere Waking far apart them led,

that only we know now.

"Tinfang Warble" and "Over Old Hills and Far Away"

Two poems about one of the Elves who were living on Tol Eressea when Eriol arrived there. He told Eriol many tales about the Elves.

O the hoot ! O the hoot !

How the trillups on his flute !

O the hoot of Tinfang Warble !

Dancing all alone,

Hopping on a stone

Flitting like a fawn

In the teilight on the lawn,

And his name is Tinfang Warble !

 

The first star has shown

And its lamp is blown

To a flame of flickering blue.

He pipes not to me,

He pipes not to thee,

He whistles for none of you.

His music is his own

The tunes of Tinfang Warble !

Kôr – In a City Lost and Dead

A sable hill, gigantic, rampart-crowned

Stands gazing out across a azure sea

Under an azure sky , on whose dark ground

Impearled as against a floor of porphyry

Gleam marble temples white, and dazzling halls;

And tawny shadows fingered long are made

In fretted bars upon their ivory walls

By massy trees rock-rooted in the shade

Like stony chiselled pillars on the vault

With shaft and capital of black basalt.

There slow forgotten days for ever reap

The silent shadows counting out rich hours

And no voice stirs; and all the marble towers

White, hot and soundless, ever burn and sleep.

"Why the Man in the Moon came down too soon"

The Man in the Moon had silver shoon

And his beard was of silver thread;

He was girt with pale gold and inaureoled

With gold about his head.

Clad in silken robe in his great white globe

He opened an ivory door

With a chrystal key, and in secrecy

He stole o'er a shadowy floor;

 

Down a filigree stair of spidery hair

He slipped in gleaming haste,

And laughing with glee to be merry and free

He swiftly earthward raced

He was tired of his pearls and diamond twirls;

Of his pallid minaret

Dizzy and white at ist lunar height

In a world of silver set;

 

And adventured this peril for ruby and beryl

And emerald and sapphire

And all lustrous gems for new diadems,

Or to blazon his ale attire.

He was lonely too wit nothing to do

But to stare at the golden world,

Or strain for the hum that would distantly come

As it gaily past him whirled;

 

And at plenilune in his argent moon

He had wearily longed a fire-

Not the limpid lights of wan selenties,

But a red terristrial pyre

With impurpurate glows of grimson and rose

And leaping orange tongue

For great seas of blues and the passionate hues

When a dancing dawn is young;

 

For the meadowy ways like chrysoprase

By winding Yare and Nen.

How he longed for the mirth of populous Earth

And the sanguine blood of men

And covetedsong and laughter long

And viands hot and wine,

Eating pearly cakes of light snowflakes

And drinking thin moonshine

 

He twinkled his fee as the thought of the meat,

Of the punch and the peppery brew

Till the tripped unaware on his slanting stair

And fell like meteors do;

As the wickering sparks in splashing arcs

Of stars blown down like rain

From his laddery path took a foaming bath

In the Ocean of Almain

 

And began to think, lest he melt and stink,

What in the moon to do,

When a Yarmouthboat found him far afloat

To the mazement of the crew

Caught in their net all shimmering wet

In a phosphorescent sheen

Of bluey whites and opal lights

And delicate liquid green

 

With the morning fish - it was his regal wish –

They packed him to Norwish town

To get warm on gin in a Norfolk inn

And dry his watery gown.

Though Saint Peter´s knell waked many a bell

In the city´s ringing towers

To shout the news of his lunatic cruise

In the early morning hours,

 

No hearths were laid, not a breakfast made,

And no one would sell him gems;

He found ashes for fire, and his gay desire

For chorus and brave anthems

Met snores instead with all Norfolk abed,

And his round heart nearly broke,

More empty and cold then above of old,

Till he bartered his fairy cloak

 

With a half-waked cook for a kitchen nook,

And his belt of cold for a smile,

And a priceless jewel for a bowl of gruel

A sample cold and vile

Of the proud plum-porridge of Anglian-Norwich–

He arrived so much too soon

For unusual guests on adventurous quests

From the Mountains of the Moon.