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