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For passing where the days, my friend and doomed the nights, when flitting ghostmoths danced round tapers in the moveless air. |
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And doomed already were, the radiant dawns, the odour and the noise of meads and all about is night. |
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One moment now may give us more than fifty years of reason, our minds shall drink of every pore the spirit of the season |
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To her fair works did nature link the human souls that through me ran and much it grieved my heart to think what |
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I can make of man. |
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You look around on |
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Middle-Earth as if she for no purpose bore you, as if you were her first-born birth, and none had lived before you. |
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I sit upon this old grey stone, and dream my time away. |
