The song rose with the sun, shimmering through the mist-shrouded valley, shivering the silver dewdrops that clung to leaf and grass-blade. Soft, soft, at first, it gradually swelled, full-throated as the robins that sang along, red breasts puffed out in joyful celebration. When the first golden rays spilled over the hill-tops and poured like honey over stone and wood and water, the aubade reached a crescendo, an hundred Elven voices raised as one to welcome the new day's dawning.
Standing at a gracefully arched window in his bedchamber, Frodo listened raptly, his near escape from worse-than-death rendering him acutely aware of how blessed he was to be experiencing the enchantment of a Rivendell dawn.
'Have you ever heard or seen anything more lovely, Sam?' he asked in a hushed voice, leaning back into Sam's embrace.
'Never,' Sam said, his arms tightening.
But he wasn't talking about the dawn.