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TOLKIEN, J.R.R.


Lament for the Rohirrim


Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?

Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?

Where is the hand on the harpstring, and the red fire glowing?

Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?

They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;

The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.

Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,

Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?


All that is gold does not glitter

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.


From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.


The Road goes ever on and on

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.


Still round the Corner

Still round the corner there may wait

A new road or a secret gate

And though I oft have passed them by

A day will come at last when I

Shall take the hidden paths that run

West of the Moon, East of the Sun.


I sit beside the fire

I sit beside the fire and think

Of all that I have seen

Of meadow flowers and butterflies

In summers that have been


Of yellow leaves and gossamer

In autumns that there were

With morning mist and silver sun

And wind upon my hair


I sit beside the fire and think

Of how the world will be

When winter comes without a spring

That I shall ever see


For still there are so many things

That I have never seen

In every wood in every spring

There is a different green


I sit beside the fire and think

Of people long ago

And people that will see a world

That I shall never know


But all the while I sit and think

Of times there were before

I listen for returning feet

And voices at the door