Luthien Tinuviel -- J R R Tolkien

Guest poem sent in by Aseem Kaul

(Poem #1138) Luthien Tinuviel "The leaves were long, the grass was green, The hemlock-umbels tall and fair, And in the glade a light was seen Of stars in shadow shimmering. Tinuviel was dancing there To music of a pipe unseen, And light of stars was in her hair, And in her rainment glimmering. There Beren came from mountains cold. And lost he wandered under leaves, And where the Elven-river rolled He walked alone and sorrowing. He peered between the hemlock-leaves And saw in wonder flowers of gold Upon her mantle and her sleeves, And her hair like shadow following. Enchantment healed his weary feet That over hills were doomed to roam; And forth he hastened, strong and fleet, And grasped at moonbeams glistening. Through woven woods in Elvenhome She lightly fled on dancing feet, And left him lonely still to roam In the silent forest listening. He heard there oft the flying sound Of feet as light as linden-leaves, Or music welling underground, In hidden hollows quavering. Now withered lay the hemlock-sheaves, And one by one with sighing sound Whispering fell the beachen leaves In wintry woodland wavering. He sought her ever, wandering far Where leaves of years were thickly strewn, By light of moon and ray of star In frosty heavens shivering. Her mantle glinted in the moon, As on a hill-top high and far She danced, and at her feet was strewn A mist of silver quivering. When winter passed, she came again, And her song released the sudden spring, Like rising lark, and falling rain, And melting water bubbling. He saw the elven-flowers spring About her feet, and healed again He longed by her to dance and sing Upon the grass untroubling. Again she fled, but swift he came, Tinuviel! Tinuviel! He called her by her elvish name; And there she halted listening. One moment stood she, and a spell His voice laid on her: Beren came, And doom fell on Tinuviel That in his arms lay glistening. As Beren looked into her eyes Within the shadows of her hair, The trembling starlight of the skies He saw there mirrored shimmering. Tinuviel the elven-fair, Immortal maiden elven-wise, About him cast her shadowy hair And arms like silver glimmering. Long was the way that fate them bore, O'er stony mountains cold and grey, Through halls of iron and darkling door, And woods of nightshade morrowless. The Sundering Seas between them lay, And yet at last they met once more, And long ago they passed away In the forest singing sorrowless." -- J R R Tolkien

Jan 3rd was apparently Tolkien's eleventy-first birthday. So I figured the
best way to celebrate it was with his poetry.

Though this isn't perhaps the most adept of Tolkien's poems (the rhyme
pattern is fairly weak - for Tolkien [my problem with the form is that it
lays undue emphasis on the fourth and eighth lines of each stanza -
martin]), I love it for the mythic charm of the stanzas, for the way the
words roll of your tongue, so that you can almost imagine that the poem is
not in English, but in Quenya. The story of Beren and Luthien, with its
operatic ardour, has always been for me one of the most memorable parts of
the Silmarillion. And Tolkien here makes of it a song fit for the grandest
minstrel, so that I am left nostalgic not only for these two lovers but for
all the Eldar and all the lost and forgotten histories of Middle Earth.

Happy Birthday, JRRT. And thanks.

Aseem

Bilbo's Last Song -- J R R Tolkien

Guest poem sent in by Jeffrey Sean Huo

(Poem #1112) Bilbo's Last Song Day is ended, dim my eyes, but journey long before me lies. Farewell, friends! I hear the call. The ship's beside the stony wall. Foam is white and waves are grey; beyond the sunset leads my way. Foam is salt, the wind is free; I hear the rising of the Sea. Farewell, friends! The sails are set, the wind is east, the moorings fret. Shadows long before me lie, beneath the ever-bending sky, but islands lie behind the Sun that I shall raise ere all is done; lands there are to west of West, where night is quiet and sleep is rest. Guided by the Lonely Star, beyond the utmost harbour-bar, I'll find the heavens fair and free, and beaches of the Starlit Sea. Ship, my ship! I seek the West, and fields and mountains ever blest. Farewell to Middle-earth at last. I see the Star above my mast! -- J R R Tolkien

For many years, Joy Hill served as secretary for J.R.R. Tolkien, and a
close relationship they had. As the story goes, Professor Tolkien used to
joke that, if ever a diamond bracelet were to fall out of an envelope of
the correspondence she handled for him, it would be hers.

Near the end of Professor Tolkien's life, as she helped him pack his office
for a move, a poem Professor Tolkien had written fell out of a book. Ms.
Hill read it, and fell in love with the short, three-verse piece; and
Tolkien made it a gift to her, her "diamond bracelet", so to speak.

Some time shortly later, after Professor Tolkien's death in 1973, Ms. Hill
gave the poem to the composer Donald Swann, who in 1967 had worked with
Professor Tolkien himself to set many of Tolkien's songs to music in the
collection _The Road Goes Ever On_.  Mr. Swann himself was so moved by the
piece that he set it to music, and added it to the 2nd edition of the
collection, which was published in 1978. The same poem was published as a
poster in 1974, illustrated by Pauline Baynes, one of Tolkien's favorite
illustrators; and was included in the BBC audio production of the _Lord of
the Rings_.

The poem does not itself actually appear in _The Return of the King_, the
last volume of the _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, but takes place at it's
very end, when many of the principal heroes of the War of the Ring prepare
to set sail into the West, to leave Middle Earth forever: among them the
great wizard Gandalf the White; Frodo Baggins, the great Ringbearer; and
his elder Bilbo, who found the Ring so long before.

.

  " 'Well, here at last, dear friends," [said Gandalf], "on the shores of
  the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I
  will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.'

  Then Frodo kissed Merry and Pippin, and last of all Sam, and went aboard;
  and the sails were drawn up, and the wind blew, and slowly the ship slipped
  away down the long grey firth; and the light of the glass of Galadriel that
  Frodo bore glimmered and was lost.

          -Chapter 9, "The Gray Havens", _The Return of the King_

.

The poem is Bilbo's farewell to his friends and to Middle Earth, and in a
sense, this poem is Tolkien's farewell as well: to the Middle Earth he
created, to the secretary who served him so faithfully; and to us, his
readers, who came to cherish the world he created. But the poem's depth and
meaning still rings strong even for those who know nothing of Tolkien's
great masterpiece. The feelings Bilbo sings of are universal. In a few
short lines Tolkien has for me, and so many others, captured perfectly the
sorrow and hope alloyed together that make up all partings, from the ends
of visits with beloved friends and family, to the final depature for
mysteries unknown that all of us must one day face. And in that
achievement, Tolkien demonstrates again the genius that has made him one of
the greatest poets of this, or any, age.

Sources include the Foreward to the 2nd Edition (1978) of _The Road Goes
Ever On and On: A Song Cycle_, by Donald Swann; and various Usenet and
Internet sources, available upon request.

-Jeffrey Huo

Cat -- J R R Tolkien

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian:

(Poem #1008) Cat The fat cat on the mat may seem to dream of nice mice that suffice for him, or cream; but he free, maybe, walks in thought unbowed, proud, where loud roared and fought his kin, lean and slim, or deep in den in the East feasted on beasts and tender men. The giant lion with iron claw in paw, and huge ruthless tooth in gory jaw; the pard dark-starred, fleet upon feet, that oft soft from aloft leaps upon his meat where woods loom in gloom -- far now they be, fierce and free, and tamed is he; but fat cat on the mat kept as a pet he does not forget. -- J R R Tolkien

A beautiful poem that's a bit more than it seems.  The Red Book has several
verses, some of which figure in the Lord of the Rings, or in the attached
stories / preludes / interludes and such.  Others are just scrawled in the
margins, for possible inclusion. JRR had scribbled "SG" in the margin when
he wrote the poem, suggesting that he meant to attribute it to Sam Gamgee.
The poem is also fairly traditional hobbit poetry (which deals a lot with
birds and beasts): rhythmic, with frequent alliteration and assonance,
making for an excellent nursery-rhyme sort of singalong song.

Still, it makes you think. Contrast a cute cat sleeping in front of a fire
with a wild, roaring and dangerous lion - and then have Tolkien solemnly
inform you in the last line that the cat hasn't forgotten her wild
ancestry...

Suresh.

[thomas adds]

Just a word on prosody: "Cat" may seem on first reading to be merely a
'hobbit nursery-rhyme', but the technical mastery it displays is nothing
short of staggering. The even-numbered lines rhyme with each other and also
internally; the odd-numbered ones have internal _triple_ rhymes. And all
this is done in lines of two and three feet respectively, leaving barely any
room for error; every single word (other than the placeholders -
prepositions conjunctions and auxiliaries) seems to be part of the rhyme
scheme. Incredible.

[Minstrels Links]

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien:
Poem #4, The Road Goes Ever On
Poem #46, Lament for Boromir
Poem #93, Eärendil was a mariner
Poem #142, He chanted a song of wizardry
Poem #220, Lament for Eorl the Young
Poem #257, Three Rings for the Elven Kings
Poem #318, Tall ships and tall kings
Poem #370, Troll sat alone on his seat of stone
Poem #440, Bregalad's Lament
Poem #643, The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon
Poem #736, The world was young, the mountains green

Cats, practical and otherwise:
Poem #165, The Owl and the Pussy-Cat  -- Edward Lear
Poem #167, Pangur Ban  -- Anon. (Irish, 8th century)
Poem #258, Macavity: The Mystery Cat -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #273, How a Cat Was Annoyed and a Poet Was Booted  -- Guy Wetmore
Carryl
Poem #282, Fog  -- Carl Sandburg
Poem #401, To a Cat  -- Jorge Luis Borges
Poem #572, Mort aux Chats -- Peter Porter
Poem #574, Growltiger's Last Stand -- T. S. Eliot
Poem #575, To Mrs Reynolds' Cat -- John Keats
Poem #577, The Cat and the Moon -- William Butler Yeats
Poem #659, Poem -- William Carlos Williams
Poem #660, On a Night of Snow -- Elizabeth Coatsworth
Poem #661, Jubilate Agno -- Christopher Smart
Poem #662, Cat -- Jibanananda Das
Poem #663, A Child's Nightmare -- Robert Graves
Poem #674, Aunt Jennifer's Tigers -- Adrienne Rich
Poem #727, Milk for the Cat -- Harold Monro
Poem #955, Gus: The Theatre Cat -- T. S. Eliot

The World was Young, the Mountains Green -- J R R Tolkien

(Poem #736) The World was Young, the Mountains Green The world was young, the mountains green, No stain yet on the Moon was seen, No words were laid on stream or stone, When Durin woke and walked alone. He named the nameless hills and dells; He drank from yet untasted wells; He stooped and looked in Mirrormere, And saw a crown of stars appear, As gems upon a silver thread, Above the shadow of his head. The world was fair, the mountains tall, In Elder Days before the fall Of mighty kings in Nargothrond And Gondolin, who now beyond The Western Seas have passed away: The world was fair in Durin's Day. A king he was on carven throne In many-pillared halls of stone With golden roof and silver floor, And runes of power upon the door. The light of sun and star and moon In shining lamps of crystal hewn Undimmed by cloud or shade of night There shone for ever fair and bright. There hammer on the anvil smote, There chisel clove, and graver wrote; There forged was blade, and bound was hilt; The delver mined, the mason built. There beryl, pearl, and opal pale, And metal wrought like fishes' mail, Buckler and corslet, axe and sword, And shining spears were laid in hoard. Unwearied then were Durin's folk; Beneath the mountains music woke: The harpers harped, the minstrels sang, And at the gates the trumpets rang. The world is grey, the mountains old, The forge's fire is ashen-cold; No harp is wrung, no hammer falls: The darkness dwells in Durin's halls; The shadow lies upon his tomb In Moria, in Khazad-dum. But still the sunken stars appear In dark and windless Mirrormere; There lies his crown in water deep, Till Durin wakes again from sleep. -- J R R Tolkien

These days, the writing of heroic fantasy has become a mass-production
industry [1]; scarcely a week goes by without an author inventing a brave
new world and subsequently being acclaimed as "the true inheritor of
Tolkien's mantle", or some such. Unfortunately, fantastic settings alone do
not an epic make, and 90% of new fantasy writing is crap [2] - the same
generic swords and sorcery, thud and blunder, repeated ad nauseam.

Tolkien is different. His imaginary homelands are not just names on the (by
now obligatory) frontispiece map, they're countries, with rich histories and
vibrant cultures; his invented tongues are not meaningless agglomerations of
random syllables, they're carefully designed showcases of the linguist's
art, with comprehensive lexica and detailed etymologies; his many invented
beings are not cardboard cutout monsters, they're creatures who live and
breathe and walk the pages of his books as convincingly as do his human
heroes and heroines. The suspension of disbelief in Tolkien is total [3].

And then there's his verse. Tolkien's verse has genuine poetic merit, and
it's not in the least bit self-conscious; when his characters break into
song (which, mind you, occurs fairly often in his books), it always seems
the perfectly natural thing to do. Today's poem is an excellent example: in
"The Fellowship of the Ring" (the first volume of "The Lord of the Rings"),
the eponymous fellowship are forced to detour through the dark and deserted
Dwarven mines of Moria [4]. One of the party asks why the Dwarves chose to
live in such darksome holes; in reply, Gimli, the lone representative of
that race in the Fellowship, half sings, half chants a poem describing the
glory of the Dwarven kingdom in the Elder Days... at the end of the recital,
the reader is left with the realization that the story of Moria _couldn't_
have been told any other way: mere prose is simply too dry to communicate
the wonder and the beauty that was Khazad-dum.

As always with Tolkien, the form reinforces the content to marvellous
effect: the language is intentionally archaic, the alliteration pronounced
(but never obtrusive), the sense of nostalgia and loss almost palpable.
Notice how Gimli never explicitly states just what it was that caused
Moria's abandonment: his reticence seems to imply that the events being
recounted occurred at a great remove from the here and now; this in turn
enhances the mystery, the vague undercurrent of dread that runs through the
poem (and especially through the last stanza). This lack of particularity
might be annoying in what is ostensibly a historical tale, but this is
definitely one of those cases where less is more: a straightforward
cataloguing of facts could never hope to capture the audience's attention
the way Gimli's hypnotically beautiful couplets do.

And beautiful they certainly are: Tolkien's feel for the English language,
for the music of words and the perfection of images, is flawless. It's a
pity that his poetic output was (by and large) limited to within the
confines of his invented universe (wide though they were); he could easily
have been this century's successor to Kipling and Tennyson, so perfect is
his verse, so effortless his prosody...

thomas.

[1] List member Vikram Doctor sent me a lovely rant on the subject a long
time ago: "the distressing flood of assembly-line fantasy that people have
been pouring out, horrifyingly huge volumes (worse, all in _cycles_) packed
with bargain basement dragons and demons and ichor besplattering the
works... incidentally, the very wonderful Ursula le Guin notes in her essays
on fantasy (The Language Of The Night, well worth reading if you haven't
already) that the use of 'ichor' is a pretty infallible indication of bad
fantasy".

[2] Though see Sturgeon's Law: "Ninety percent of everything is crap".
Derived from a quote by science fiction author Theodore Sturgeon, who once
said, "Sure, 90% of science fiction is crud. That's because 90% of
_everything_ is crud.". Oddly, when Sturgeon's Law is cited, the final word
is almost invariably changed to 'crap'.
        -- The Jargon File v4.2.3, [broken link] http://www.tuxedo.org/jargon/

[3] In fairness to contemporary writers of fantasy, it must be said that
Tolkien mapped out his territory so comprehensively that only truly
exceptional talents (of the order of le Guin, Pratchett and Lieber, for
instance) could hope to explore the genre and find something new to say
about it. Being second in any field is a thankless task.

[4] Hmm, it looks like this alliteration thing is catching <grin>.

[Links]

Poems by Tolkien to have featured on the Minstrels:

Poem #4, "The Road Goes Ever On"
Poem #46, "Lament for Boromir"
Poem #93, "Eärendil was a mariner"
Poem #142, "He chanted a song of wizardry"
Poem #220, "Lament for Eorl the Young"
Poem #257, "Three Rings for the Elven Kings"
Poem #318, "Tall ships and tall kings"
Poem #370, "Troll sat alone on his seat of stone"
Poem #440, "Bregalad's Lament"
Poem #643, "The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon"

[Credits]

My thanks to Vikram Doctor for the quote reproduced above, and to Amit
Chakrabarti, for the points he raised in a recent email about Tolkien's
magic - several of which I've shamelessly filched for today's commentary
<grin>.

The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon -- J R R Tolkien

Guest poem submitted by Reed C. Bowman:

Allow me to present my single favourite Tolkien poem, and one of his
greatest inventions. His preface is all that is needed, and it, and the poem
(or song) itself sufficiently show the genius of its invention:

At the inn called the Prancing Pony in Bree, Frodo, as a visitor from the
Shire, is asked to sing a song the guests haven't heard before. "For a
moment Frodo stood gaping. Then in desperation he began a ridiculous song
that Bilbo had been rather fond of (and indeed rather proud of, for he had
made up the words himself). It was about an inn; and that is probably why it
came into Frodo's mind just then. Here it is in full. Only a few words of it
are now, as a rule, remembered."

(Poem #643) The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon There is an inn, a merry old inn beneath an old grey hill, And there they brew a beer so brown That the Man in the Moon himself came down one night to drink his fill. The ostler has a tipsy cat that plays a five-stringed fiddle; And up and down he saws his bow Now squeaking high, now purring low, now sawing in the middle. The landlord keeps a little dog that is mighty fond of jokes; When there's good cheer among the guests, He cocks an ear at all the jests and laughs until he chokes. They also keep a hornéd cow as proud as any queen; But music turns her head like ale, And makes her wave her tufted tail and dance upon the green. And O! the rows of silver dishes and the store of silver spoons! For Sunday there's a special pair, And these they polish up with care on Saturday afternoons. The Man in the Moon was drinking deep, and the cat began to wail; A dish and a spoon on the table danced, The cow in the garden madly pranced and the little dog chased his tail. The Man in the Moon took another mug, and then rolled beneath his chair; And there he dozed and dreamed of ale, Till in the sky the stars were pale, and dawn was in the air. Then the ostler said to his tipsy cat: 'The white horses of the Moon, They neigh and champ their silver bits; But their master's been and drowned his wits, and the Sun'll be rising soon!' So the cat on the fiddle played hey-diddle-diddle, a jig that would wake the dead: He squeaked and sawed and quickened the tune, While the landlord shook the Man in the Moon: 'It's after three!' he said. They rolled the Man slowly up the hill and bundled him into the Moon, While his horses galloped up in rear, And the cow came capering like a deer, and a dish ran up with the spoon. Now quicker the fiddle went deedle-dum-diddle; the dog began to roar, The cow and the horses stood on their heads; The guests all bounded from their beds and danced upon the floor. With a ping and a pang the fiddle-strings broke! the cow jumped over the Moon, And the little dog laughed to see such fun, And the Saturday dish went off at a run with the silver Sunday spoon. The round Moon rolled behind the hill, as the Sun raised up her head. She* hardly believed her fiery eyes; For though it was day, to her surprise they all went back to bed! -- J R R Tolkien

* Elves (and Hobbits) always refer to the Sun as She. [Tolkien's footnote]

-----

After Tolkien, it has become not uncommon for people to write alternative
histories, prehistories, legendary histories, and mythologies, that
synthesize or make a new and different sense of the old stories and legends.
Tolkien's books are so magical because they are so successful in
incorporating these stories into a creation of his own, woven with such
mastery of the old stories, and rendered with such linguistic and
storytelling acumen that his retelling of the world is both wholly new and
apparently inevitable.

This particular poem brings his world closer to ours than was his wont, but
because of that it points up exactly the craft he was employing in his
creation. Here he has taken a short nonsense poem from Mother Goose, a
charming one that absolutely everyone knows, and given it a history. Finding
short nonsense rhymes that once were part of longer, more sensible poems and
songs (often mnemonics) is not infrequent in the study of language's
history. So he made up the sort of poem "Hey-diddle-diddle, the cat and the
fiddle" could have come from. Bilbo's song serves to "explain" why we have
this peculiar nonsense rhyme in common usage today. Of course, when you get
right down to it, the original is nonsense, too, but at least things are
explained one step better, and all the characters have achieved at least a
one-dimensional existence.

Beyond this, the poem works quite remarkably well to show the style of poem
Hobbits like (fun and frivolous), reveals in an unserious way a small
portion of their former mythology (the Moon is a chariot containing a Man,
drawn by horses, the Sun is female - masculine Moon and feminine Sun are to
be found in Germanic languages, including Old English, though now we are
more accustomed to the Romance interpretation which switches them), and of
course shows off Tolkien's ability to create marvellously amiable poetry as
well as prose.

One last observation (it is getting late as I write): essential to all
Tolkien's writing is his deep and nuanced understanding of the roots of the
English language (as well as of the legends, and the deeply meshed
connection between language and legend). It is his precise control of a
vocabulary heavily weighted to the Old English, Germanic roots that creates
his particular style both in prose and poetry. His use of alliteration (even
in prose) is much heavier than most poets', yet his poetry is not borne down
by the weight of it; this is because he knows how to make it valuable, by
modelling his usages on ancient styles, and not too often placing foreign
(Romance) words in constructions calling for Old English feel. It is worth
reading Tolkien word by word to see how he does these things; it's even
worth learning Old English to read him, if you ask me...

RCB

Bregalad's Lament -- J R R Tolkien

Playing to my Tolkien fetish:

(Poem #440) Bregalad's Lament O Orofarnë, Lassemista, Carnimírië! O rowan fair, upon your hair how white the blossom lay! O rowan mine, I saw you shine upon a summer's day, Your rind so bright, your leaves so light, your voice so cool and soft: Upon your head how golden-red the crown you bore aloft! O rowan dead, upon your head your hair is dry and grey; Your crown is spilled, your voice is stilled for ever and a day. O Orofarnë, Lassemista, Carnimírië! -- J R R Tolkien

In any other context, I dare say I would have found this poem
cloyingly sentimental, even irritating. If Shelley or Byron had written
it, I would have weighed in with some choice invective about
Romantic guff; if it had been by Auden, I would have railed on about
his lack of depth and insight; if it were a Pope, I would have
criticised its smallness of vision.

But since it's by Tolkien, I'll overlook all its deficiencies and instead
say that I actually like it <grin>.

thomas.

[Glossary]

Bregalad is an Ent, a shepherd of the trees. In this song he mourns
the wanton desecration of his beloved rowans by the Evil Wizard
[tm] Saruman's Evil Hordes [tm].

'Orofarnë, Lassemista, Carnimírië!' means "mountain-dwelling, leaf-
grey, with adornment of red jewels". But then, that should be
obvious, neh? <grin>

[Moreover]

If you're a die-hard Tolkien fan (like Martin and myself), you might
be interested in this mail, from the Tolkien Languages discussion
list. I especially like the comment about the coffee beans.

"I had guessed that the ending -e was a feminine ending, and that
Orofarne and Carnimiirie were particularized, feminine forms derived
from the adjectives *orofarna and *carnimiirea.  That still leaves the
question of lassemista; but possibly the preference of Lassemista
to Lassemiste comes from the existence of a word miste with other
meaning? ('fine rain' in The Etymologies).

I take lassemista as meaning something like 'leaves as silvery-grey
as fine rain'.  The underside of rowan leaves have a soft fuzzy
surface that is pale grey and sharply distinguished from the brighter
green of the top surface.  This is quite noticeable in a storm when
the leaves are blown back, or when the trees have been cutdown
and are lying on their sides, as implied by the poem.  Also, note
that it doesn't make too much difference if you translate mista as
"silvery-grey" or "fine rain".  I believe the word for violet was
originally applied to the flower because of its color though most
people now would consider the word to have come from the plant.
Oranges however had the name before it was applied to the color.
This *does* make a difference in how words are formed in a
language from a morphological standpoint, that is, whether a
speaker considers a word to be a noun or an adjective may
determine the form of derivatives of that word.  But the derivatives
may change if speakers' understanding of the underlying form and
history of the word changes--hence folk etymologies, etc.

I think that Orofarne might be understood as "mountain-grown"
though this makes the rowans sound like coffee-beans, an
unfortunate product of passing time.  Although the form "far"
meaning in some sense "dwell" is not, as stated, attested, it might
be related to such forms as "feren" which show up in the Ilkorin
dialects as names for the beech tree, which like the rowan is
"spreading".  The form gal/kal also has a dual meaning of to "grow"
and to "spread", hence its application to both trees and light.  But
that is a rather tenuous argument."

        -- David Salo

[Administrivia]

I'm back in Tokyo (and on email) after a blissful vacation. Many
thanks to Martin for covering for me while I was away, and to all the
guest poem contributors whose contributions we've been surviving
on.

Troll sat alone on his seat of stone -- J R R Tolkien

The lighter side of Tolkien...

(Poem #370) Troll sat alone on his seat of stone Troll sat alone on his seat of stone, And munched and mumbled a bare old bone; For many a year he had gnawed it near, For meat was hard to come by. Done by! Gum by! In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone, And meat was hard to come by. Up came Tom with his big boots on. Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon? For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim. As should be a-lyin' in the graveyard. Caveyard! Paveyard! This many a year has Tim been gone, And I thought he were lyin' in the graveyard.' 'My lad,' said Troll, 'this bone I stole. But what be bones that lie in a hole? Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead, Afore I found his shinbone. Tinbone! Skinbone! He can spare a share for a poor old troll, For he don't need his shinbone.' Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee Without axin' leave should go makin' free With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin; So hand the old bone over! Rover! Trover! Though dead he be, it belongs to he; So hand the old bone over!' 'For a couple o' pins,' says Troll, and grins, 'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins. A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet! I'll try my teeth on thee now. Hee now! See now! I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins; I've a mind to dine on thee now.' But just as he thought his dinner was caught, He found his hands had hold of naught. Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind And gave him the boot to larn him. Warn him! Darn him! A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought, Would be the way to larn him. But harder than stone is the flesh and bone Of a troll that sits in the hills alone. As well set your boot to the mountain's root, For the seat of a troll don't feel it. Peel it! Heal it! Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan, And he knew his toes could feel it. Tom's leg is game, since home he came, And his bootless foot is lasting lame; But Troll don't care, and he's still there With the bone he boned from its owner. Doner! Boner! Troll's old seat is still the same, And the bone he boned from its owner! -- J R R Tolkien

I've mentioned before that Tolkien's comic verse is among the best that
I've read; it's all due to the effortlessness with which he captures the
rhythms of (in this case) rustic speech while staying strictly within
the confines of rhyme and metre. Marvellously, skilfully done - and a
very funny poem to boot.

thomas.

PS. Pun fully intended <grin>

Tall ships and tall kings -- J R R Tolkien

(Poem #318) Tall ships and tall kings Tall ships and tall kings Three times three What brought they from the foundered land Over the flowing sea? Seven stars and seven stones And one white tree. -- J R R Tolkien

Note: Identified by Gandalf as one of the Rhymes of Lore

While no other fantasy writer I know of uses verse to the extent Tolkien
does, this particular form is fairly common. The manifestations are various
- an ancient prophecy, a potent piece of magical lore, a snippet of history
passed into legend, words of wisdom ranging from Zenlike utterances to folk
proverbs - but the form is usually the same: the language slightly archaic
or unusual, the imagery either straightforward or exaggeratedly
metaphorical, and the whole having something of the feel of a nursery rhyme.
Rhymes and scansion are both optional, as long as it fulfils the primary
criterion for poetry, viz. interesting line breaks. The main effect conveyed
is of something passed down from the days of old, translated, of course
(hence the lack of refinedness by the standards of English verse) and
possibly a fragment of a far larger work now lost in the mists of time.

Tolkien, of course, does not take the opportunity to relax the rigour of his
verse; while 'Tall ships' lacks the feel of 'high' verse, it is nonetheless
technically perfect (as, indeed, are most nursery rhymes - what many authors
do not realise is that for something to survive the translation through the
ages unchanged, it has to be both attractive and memorable. There's a
*reason* poetry is so much easier to memorise than prose is). Furthermore it
is, at least to me, one of the nicest pieces of verse in tLotR - sure, it is
a bit sing-song, but that's because it *works* here - the rhythm underscores
the perfection of the verse, while giving it the flavour of something that
was for at least part of its history passed on orally.

m.

Links:

Both Thomas and I are diehard Tolkien fans, and we've run a number of his
poems in the past. (See
[broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet.html)
It's well worth reading through them one after another to get some feel for
the sheer diversity of Tolkien's poetry, and the skill with which he handled
a number of different verse forms and poetic traditions.

Three Rings for the Elven Kings -- J R R Tolkien

This week, I'll be running a series of poems by fantasy authors

(Poem #257) Three Rings for the Elven Kings Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky, Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone, Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. -- J R R Tolkien

This is undoubtedly the most famous piece of Tolkien's verse, known (or at
least familiar) to many who have never read the books, and memorized by
practically everyone who has. If I had to describe the poem in one word, it
would be 'compelling' - the perfectly measured syllables, the ominous,
brooding atmosphere, the sonorous, chantlike effect, almost lure the reader
into ascribing an intrinsic power to the words themselves.

The quote below illustrates the point beautifully

  " Ash nazg durbatulúk, ash nazg gimbatul,
  ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul."

  The change in the wizard's voice was astounding. Suddenly it became
  menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the high
  sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. All trembled, and the Elves
  stopped their ears. "Never before has any voice dared to utter the words
  of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey," said Elrond, as the shadow
  passed and the company breathed once more. "And let us hope that none will
  ever speak it here again," answered Gandalf.

        - JRRT

Notes:

Like much of the poetry in the Lord of the Rings, 'Three Rings...' refers
not to the book itself, but to the deeper body of history and mythology
underlying it. It outlines the creation of the Rings of Power, in whose
history tLotR is but the final chapter, and more about which can be found in
the Silmarillion.

For a picture of the One Ring, and the inscribed couplet, see
  <http://www.nationalgeographic.com/ngbeyond/rings/images/ring_image.jpg>

For a nice page on the Rings of Power, see
  <http://www.daimi.au.dk/~bouvin/tolkien/ringsofpower.html>

The following is an excerpt from a Tolkien Linguistics site:

  Our sole example of pure Black Speech, then, is the inscription on the
  Ring: Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh
  burzum-ishi krimpatul. "One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
  One Ring to bring them all and in the Darkness bind them." (LotR1/II ch.
  2) Nazg is "ring", also seen in Nazgûl "Ring-wraith(s)". Ash is the number
  "one", agh is the conjuction "and", disturbingly similar to Scandinavian
  og, och. Burzum is "darkness", evidently incorporating the same element
  búrz, burz- "dark" as in Lugbúrz "Tower-dark", the Black Speech name that
  Sindarin Barad-dûr translates. Hence, the -um of burzum must be an
  abstract suffix like the "-ness" of the corresponding English word
  "darkness". Burzum has a suffix ishi "in". In the transcription it is
  separated from burzum by a hyphen, but there is nothing corresponding in
  the Tengwar inscription on the Ring, so this may be considered either a
  postposition or a locative ending. (It is remarkably similar to Quenya
  -ssë and may support the theory advanced by Robert Foster in his Complete
  Guide to Middle-earth, that the Black Speech was to some extent based on
  Quenya and a perversion of it. The element burz- "dark" is also vaguely
  similar to the Elvish stem for "black", MOR.) Though burzum-ishi is
  translated "in the darkness", there does not seem to be anything
  corresponding to the article "the", unless it is somehow incorporated in
  ishi. But the evidence is that the Black Speech does not mark the
  distinction between definite and indefinite nouns; see below.

                -- <http://www.uib.no/People/hnohf/orkish.htm>

For more on Tolkien, see the previous poems in the archive at
  <http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels>

And finally, a very tangential aside - if, like me, you enjoy Tolkien for
the sheer poetry of his language, you might enjoy Patricia McKillip too.
Her plots lack gripping power, IMO, but her language is truly beautiful.

m.

Lament for Eorl the Young -- J R R Tolkien

Over two months since I did a Tolkien... this just will not do :-)

(Poem #220) Lament for Eorl the Young 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 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? -- J R R Tolkien

This is not so much a lament for one person as it is a lament for the passing of
time and the passing of a way of life - the Rohirrim (Eorl's people) were a
tribe of nomadic horsemen and pasturers, who settled down (became 'respectable')
a few hundred years before the events in The Lord of the Rings. This song is a
lament for the last of the nomadic chieftains (the aforementioned Eorl), who was
also the first of the Kings of the Golden Hall (as his seat of power was
called).

The imagery is (as always with Tolkien) utterly beautiful; I like it especially
for its simplicity. Which, again, is only what's to be expected from a direct
and unsophisticated (I wouldn't say 'crude') people. Another example [1] of
Tolkien's practice of matching the quality of his poetry to the skill of the
(fictional) poet supposed to have written it.

A few comments on the form: the poem is consciously modelled on Old English
verse - specifically, in the rhyming-couplet scheme and the heavy alliteration.
Indeed, Tolkien based the Rohirric language on Anglo-Saxon at a sort of
meta-linguistic level - it (i.e., true Rohirric) bears the same relation to the
Common Speech of the characters in the book as does Old English to our modern
language [2].

Lest any Middle Earth neophytes think otherwise, let me assure you that Tolkien
did indeed write poems other than elegies and laments; in fact, his narrative
comic verse is among the best there is. It's just that I happen to like the slow
dignity and poignancy with which he imbues his serious verse - it takes great
skill to pull this off without sounding pompous or ponderous; at its best,
though, such verse can be deeply moving.

thomas.

[1] See Martin's note to 'Lament for Boromir', Minstrels Poem #46
for the first example
[2] As you've probably realized by now, a large part of the seeming
'authenticity' of The Lord of the Rings stems from the author's attention to
detail and his linguistic skills; Tolkien himself commented (on more than one
occasion) that the languages of Middle Earth were the most important component
of his 'sub-creation'.

He chanted a song of wizardry -- J R R Tolkien

(Poem #142) He chanted a song of wizardry He chanted a song of wizardry, Of piercing, opening, of treachery, Revealing, uncovering, betraying. Then sudden Felagund there swaying Sang in answer a song of staying, Resisting, battling against power, Of secrets kept, strength like a tower, And trust unbroken, freedom, escape; Of changing and of shifting shape Of snares eluded, broken traps, The prison opening, the chain that snaps. Backwards and forwards swayed their song. Reeling and foundering, as ever more strong The chanting swelled, Felagund fought, And all the magic and might he brought Of Elvenesse into his words. Softly in the gloom they heard the birds Singing afar in Nargothrond, The sighing of the Sea beyond, Beyond the western world, on sand, On sand of pearls in Elvenland. Then the gloom gathered; darkness growing In Valinor, the red blood flowing Beside the Sea, where the Noldor slew The Foamriders, and stealing drew Their white ships with their white sails From lamplit havens. The wind wails, The wolf howls. The ravens flee. The ice mutters in the mouths of the Sea. The captives sad in Angband mourn. Thunder rumbles, the fires burn --- And Finrod fell before the throne. -- J R R Tolkien

Context: This is an extract from the 'Lay of Leithian', an epic poem of
several thousand lines which was among the earliest of Tolkien's
explorations of the mythology of Middle Earth. The details of the plot
need not bother us; suffice to say that today's poem describes a duel
between Finrod Felagund (the good guy) and Sauron (the bad guy). Finrod
loses.

While the motif of duelling Wizards is as old as mythology itself,
Tolkien adds a new twist to the theme by making the duel a contest of
songs. Sauron (the unnamed adversary) and Finrod fill their songs with
words describing what they stand for, what they believe in [1].  Thus
Finrod speaks of the beauty and mystery of Valinor, music and meaning
and the 'magic and might ... of Elvenesse', while Sauron's words are of
betrayal and treachery, of darkness and doom and 'the red blood
flowing'. The final victory goes to Sauron because of a crime in
Finrod's past (the Kinslaying, referred to in lines 22 through 27) which
he must now 'atone' for...

The language is, as ever, exquisite; Tolkien conjures up wonderfully
evocative images with sublime skill. Notice especially the way the mood
changes between the second and third 'stanzas' [2] - in the former,
everything is smooth and graceful: the repetition of words like 'sand'
and 'beyond' helps ease the transition from one line to the next,
contibuting to the gentle, even flow of the syllables. Conversely, in
the latter, the rhythm is broken into harsh, choppy fragments ('The wind
wails / The wolf howls. The ravens flee.'), remorselessly grim and
bleak. Form and content, my friends, form and content.

There's a nice element of self-reference (one of my favourite themes, in
case you haven't noticed) running through it all; indeed, there are
times when it's impossible to distinguish between the precise words
spoken by the two sorcerers and the worlds these words conjure up. Words
have a power of their own; the concept of using them to do battle, of
course, is particularly Tolkienesque (and particularly nice, might I add
:-))

thomas..

Notes:

[1] This harks back to the old mythological conceit (since used by any
number of sf&f writers) that one who knows your true name has power over
you.
[2] It's worth remembering that this is not meant to be a stand-alone
poem; rather, it is (as I mentioned above) just a tiny excerpt from a
much larger work. Hence any division into 'stanzas', or any attempt to
demarcate a beginning or an ending - indeed, any sort of deep-structure
analysis - is meaningless.

Glossary:

A (far too detailed) glossary of terms for the
Tolkienitically-challenged followeth:

Finrod - (Sindarin, from Quenya 'Findarato': 'son of Fin(we)-mighty')
this Elf dude who really rocks, y'know :-)
Felagund - (Dwarvish: 'Hewer of caves') - epithet applied to Finrod,
because of his construction of the cavern stronghold of Nargothrond.
Nargothrond - (Sindarin: 'Halls of the river Narog') Finrod's cavern
stronghold :-)
Elvenesse - the lands of the Elves (duh!)
Valinor - (Sindarin: 'the land of the Valar') - Well, if you really must
know, this is the land to the west of Belegaer (the Great Ocean) whence
the Noldor (q.v.) came to Middle Earth (against the wishes of their
angelic guardians, the aforementioned Valar) to pursue a course of
revenge upon Morgoth (see 'Angband'.) because he, Morgoth, had stolen
the fabulous jewels known as the Silmarils from them, the Noldor. Don't
say I didn't warn you.
Noldor - (Quenya: 'those with knowledge') - the race of Elves to which
Finrod belonged.
Angband - (Sindarin: 'the Hells of Iron') - the underground fortress and
stronghold (I like that word) of Morgoth, the Great Enemy and Sauron's
boss.
Leithian - (Sindarin?: 'Release from bondage')

Websites:

There are (literally) thousands of Tolkien sites out there. My favourite
is probably the Encyclopaedia of Arda - http://www.glyphweb.com/arda/ -
though I have to admit there are many more which I haven't seen.

As per a reader request, from now on our poetry mails will contain a
link to our home page - http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/ .
Recent subscribers, do pay it a visit and check out all our previous
poems.

Eärendil was a mariner -- J R R Tolkien

(Poem #93) Eärendil was a mariner Eärendil was a mariner that tarried in Arvernien; he built a boat of timber felled in Nimbrethil to journey in; her sails he wove of silver fair, of silver were her lanterns made, her prow was fashioned like a swan, and light upon her banners laid. In panoply of ancient kings, in chained rings he armoured him; his shining shield was scored with runes to ward all wounds and harm from him; his bow was made of dragon-horn, his arrows shorn of ebony; of silver was his habergeon, his scabbard of chalcedony; his sword of steel was valiant, of adamant his helmet tall, an eagle-plume upon his crest, upon his breast an emerald. Beneath the Moon and under star he wandered far from northern strands, bewildered on enchanted ways beyond the days of mortal lands. From gnashing of the Narrow Ice where shadow lies on frozen hills, from nether heats and burning waste he turned in haste, and roving still on starless waters far astray at last he came to Night of Naught, and passed, and never sight he saw of shining shore nor light he sought. The winds of wrath came driving him, and blindly in the foam he fled from west to east and errandless, unheralded he homeward sped. There flying Elwing came to him, and flame was in the darkness lit; more bright than light of diamond the fire upon her carcanet. The Silmaril she bound on him and crowned him with the living light, and dauntless then with burning brow he turned his prow; and in the night from otherworld beyond the Sea there strong and free a storm arose, a wind of power in Tarmenel; by paths that seldom mortal goes his boat it bore with biting breath as might of death across the grey and long-forsaken seas distressed: from east to west he passed away. Through Evernight he back was borne on black and roaring waves that ran o'er leagues unlit and foundered shores that drowned before the Days began, until he hears on strands of pearl where ends the world the music long, where ever-foaming billows roll the yellow gold and jewels wan. He saw the Mountain silent rise where twilight lies upon the knees of Valinor, and Eldamar beheld afar beyond the seas. A wanderer escaped from night to haven white he came at last, to Elvenhome the green and fair where keen the air, where pale as glass beneath the Hill of Ilmarin a-glimmer in a valley sheer the lamplit towers of Tirion are mirrored on the Shadowmere. He tarried there from errantry, and melodies they taught to him, and sages old him marvels told, and harps of gold they brought to him. They clothed him then in elven-white, and seven lights before him sent, as through the Calacirian to hidden land forlorn he went. He came unto the timeless halls where shining fall the countless years, and endless reigns the Elder King in Ilmarin on Mountain sheer; and words unheard were spoken then of folk of Men and Elven-kin, beyond the world were visions showed forbid to those that dwell therein. A ship then new they built for him of mithril and of elven-glass with shining prow; no shaven oar nor sail she bore on silver mast: the Silmaril as lantern light and banner bright with living flame to gleam thereon by Elbereth herself was set, who thither came and wings immortal made for him, and laid on him undying doom, to sail the shoreless skies and come behind the Sun and light of Moon. From Evereven's lofty hills where softly silver fountains fall his wings him bore, a wandering light, beyond the might Mountain Wall. From World's End then he turned away, and yearned again to find afar his home through shadows journeying, and burning as an island star on high above the mists he came, a distant flame before the Sun, a wonder ere the waking dawn where grey the Norland waters run. And over Middle-earth he passed and heard at last the weeping sore of women and of elven-maids In Elder Days, in years of yore. But on him mighty doom was laid, till Moon should fade, an orbéd star to pass, and tarry never more on Hither Shores where mortals are; or ever still a herald on an errand that should never rest to bear his shining lamp afar, the Flammifer of Westernesse. -- J R R Tolkien

A Word to the Wise: it isn't necessary to know the details of Tolkien's
mythology in order to appreciate his poetry. The tale of Earendil is a
striking illustration of this fact; indeed, even within the context of
'The Lord of the Rings' it remains more or less unexplained, referring
as it does to events which take place long before those described in
that (truly magnificent) book.

Unlike many narrative poems in which the 'story' gets swamped in a mess
of factual detail, 'Earendil' relies more on a wealth of evocative
imagery and sound to create its effect. The use of proper nouns
('Arvernien', 'Nimbrethil' and so on) does not distract us from the
thrust of the poem; rather, it adds an air of realism (and mysterious
beauty) to the whole.

Tolkien himself was well aware of this last fact; he says somewhere that
'much of the magic of fantasy is created by a sense of what lies hidden
beneath the surface; once the exotic is made familiar, it loses its
charm' [1]. And of course, being the consummate craftsman that he was,
Tolkien made sure that his characters walked across the backdrop of an
incredibly detailed and rich world, one which offers innumerable
glimpses of distant, unrevealed vistas stretching as far as the mind can
see...

[1] as liberally paraphrased by me, thomas

The poem itself is written with extraordinary skill. Note especially the
use of internal rhymes and alliteration: intricate, yet never strained,
and so natural as to be almost unnoticeable. Exotic and archiac words
('habergeon', 'chalcedony', 'carcanet'...) imbue the tale with a sense
of remoteness and majesty, as does the liberal use of inversion ('her
sails he wove', as opposed to 'he wove her sails', in line 5).

A one word summary? Magical.

thomas.

Lament for Boromir -- J R R Tolkien

45 poems done and not a single Tolkien from me? Time to rectify that...

(Poem #46) Lament for Boromir Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes. 'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight? Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?' 'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey; I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed away Into the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more. The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor.' 'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar, But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.' From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones; The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it moans. 'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve? Where now is Boromir the fair? He tarries and I grieve.' 'Ask not of me where he doth dwell --- so many bones there lie On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky; So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea. Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me!' 'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south, But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey sea's mouth.' From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls; And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls. 'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today? What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.' 'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought. His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought. His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest; And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.' 'O Boromir! The Tower of Gaurd shall ever northward gaze To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.' -- J R R Tolkien

Tolkien's massive popularity sometimes leads people (who ought to know
better) to dismiss him as being a lightweight author - a writer of
lowbrow, escapist fairy tales which no serious student of literature
should bother with.

If you ask me, nothing could be further from the truth.

The fact is, Tolkien was (and is) one of the greatest lyric poets of the
20th century; indeed, I can think of no poet after Yeats with such a
facility for creating hauntingly beautiful turns of phrase that resonate
in your memory long after you read them... you come across a snatch of
verse from Tolkien, and you think, "That sounds so *right*"... it's as
if the poetry has existed for eternity, and Tolkien simply plucked it
out of the ether and put it down on paper.

His cult following on campuses around the should also not obscure the
fact that Tolkien's  writing was carefully and painstakingly researched,
drawing on a variety of sources (Norse epic poetry, Anglo-Saxon
alliterative verse, heroic rhyming couplets...) to create an evocative,
yet deceptively simple style of his own. The above poem is a good
example of his work: the language is unstrained and natural, the metre
and rhyme is never anything less than perfect, the images (especially
the striking descriptions of whole landscapes in a few short words) are
haunting...

The poem also has a wonderful unity of structure and composition - the
apostrophes to (in turn) the three winds and their respective answers
form a natural progression, culminating in the last couplet; the
repetition of the phrase 'Rauros, golden Rauros-falls' adds to the
poignancy of the lament.

thomas.

PS. A brief glossary / guide:

Boromir, son of Denethor: one of the members in the Fellowship of the
Ring; died defending his weaker companions against overwhelming numbers.
Called Boromir the Tall.

Amon Hen: 'Hill of Sight'. Where Boromir fought his last battle.

Anduin: the Great River of Middle Earth; Boromir was laid to rest in a
boat and set free to float down the river and into the sea.

Rauros: 'Noise-foam'. A series of waterfalls on the Anduin, near Amon
Hen.

Rohan: Just a place.

Note the detail in the geography: part of the magic of Tolkien's world
is the elaborate care with which he constructed the landscapes, the
histories, the etymologies...

The Road Goes Ever On -- J R R Tolkien

(Poem #4) The Road Goes Ever 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. -- J R R Tolkien

from The Lord of the Rings, 1954.

While Tolkien needs no introduction, I feel that his poetry deserves a
wider audience than Middle Earth fan(atic)s. The poem above is surely
one of his best known, and IMHO one of his best.

In the book, it is referred to as the 'walking song', written by Bilbo
and quoted by Frodo. Two other verses can be found, one in the Hobbit
and one at the end of the LotR. There was a wonderful piece of prose
accompanying it, comparing the Road to a river, with every path a
tributary, and every doorstep a spring, which I'd love to have typed in,
but I don't have the book with me.

Martin.