The Cottage of Lost Play

[Maedhros]

Sometimes I wonder what happened to the Cottage of Lost Play!
From The Book of Lost Tales 1: The Cottage of Lost Play

Now was he at the summit of the hill amidst its houses, and stepping as if by chance he turned aside down a winding lane, till, a little down the western slope of the hill, his eye was arrested by a tiny dwelling whose many small windows were curtained snugly, yet only so that a most warm and delicious light, as of hearts content within, looked forth. Then his heart yearned for kind company, and the desire for wayfaring died in him - and impelled by a great longing he turned aside at this cottage door, and knocking asked one who came and opened what might be the name of this house and who dwelt therein. And it was said to him that this was Mar Vanwa Tyaliéva, or the Cottage of Lost Play, and at that name he wondered greatly. There dwelt within, 'twas said, Lindo and Vairë who had built it many years ago, and with them were no few of their folk and friends and children. And at this he wondered more than before, seeing the size of the cottage; but he that opened to him, perceiving his mind, said: 'Small is the dwelling, but smaller still are they that dwell here - for all who enter must be very small indeed, or of their own good wish become as very little folk even as they stand upon the threshold.'

To me at least, the concept of the Cottage of Lost Play is very beautiful. I know that the concept was modified later, and so was the entire legendarium, but I'm still amazed at the concept of such a place and the beauty that it gives. Even early Tolkien's ideas are great.
The poems at the end are very interesting themselves:

Alalminórë! Green heart of this Isle;
Where linger yet the Faithful Companies!
Still undespairing here they slowly file;
Down lonely paths with solemn harmonies:
The Fair, the first-born in an elder day,
Immortal Elves, who singing on their way;
Of bliss of old and grief, though men forget,
Pass like a wind among the rustling trees,;
A wave of bowing grass, and men forget
Their voices calling from a time we do not know,
Their gleaming hair like sunlight long ago.