Count These Strokes
(Based on Shakespeare's Sonnet XLVIII)
How careful was I when I took my axe,
Each orc-neck under truest edge to thrust,
That, in my use, it might forever whack
The heads of falsehood, those lacking in trust!
Ah thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy comfort, bears my greatest grief;
Thou, best of dearest, and mine only care,
Are left a-notch'd from that iron thief,
Alas, had I only buried deep in orc-ish chest,
Saving thou that collar! dulled I feel thou art,
Blunt and needing whet-stone. No longer rest
From warrior's pleasures thou, sharpened cut apart.
And thence thy edge wilt be stolen I fear,
For headcount proves thievish for a prize so dear.
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Dearer than Fine Gold
(Based on Shakespeare's Sonnet LII)
Someday I will be rich, with blessed key
To bring me to my sweet up-locked treasure,
The which I will not every hour survey.
For blunting the fine point of dwarvish pleasure.
Therefore dwarf gifts are solomn and so rare,
Since seldom coming, in the long year set,
Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,
Or captain jewels in the carcenet.
So is friendship with you like treasure chest,
Or as the jewel which the gold doth hide,
To make these Elf-shared decades special-blest,
By slow unfolding of life through your eyes.
Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,
Being had, to forests, being lack'd, to hope.
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Sonnet for Haldir
(based on Shakespeare's sonnet LXXXIX)
Say that thou didst forget Elves; fearsome fault,
And I will comment upon that offense.
Speak of our lameness, and I straight will halt,
Against thy reasons making pointed defence.
Thou canst not, Dwarf, disgrace me half so ill,
To set your form within our beauteous wood,
As thy'll thyself disgrace; as knowing naught will.
I would acquaintance strangle, and look strange,
Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongue
They well-deserved "name" no more shouldst dwell,
Lest I (who breathes softly) should do it wrong,
And happily of your old acquaintance tell.
For thee, against myself I'll vow debate,
That I will ne'er hate him thou dost hate.
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A Sonnet for Legolas
I Shall Remember
(based on Shakespeare's Sonnet CXXIII)
No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change;
These monuments carven by newer kings
To me are nothing novel, nothing strange;
They are but remnants of former age's things.
Their dates are brief, and therefore Men admire
What thou dost foist upon them that is 'old,'
But rather seek the ageless, my desire,
Than thinking oft of kings or hidden gold.
Thus Men and Dwarves I both defy,
Not wondering at the present nor the past;
Records crumble and under sod they lie,
Fading to dust despite desire to last.
This do I vow, and this shall ever be,
I will be true, to keep their memory.
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A Sonnet for Peregrin
I'm Coming Too
(Based on Shakespeare’s Sonnet CLI)
You seem too young to know what conscience is:
Yet who knows not, conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle halfling, never be urged amiss,
Lest guilty of others faults thy sweet self prove.
For thou staying near, I will suggest
Thou be a part of this body’s quest, that you may
Triumph in love; Loyalty stays no reason;
And, rising at they name, doth point out thee
As the triumphant prize. Glad to be chosen,
You are contented, though poor traveling it be,
To stand in these affairs, or fall by their side.
No want of conscience hold it that I choose
Your love for him by whose strength we rise or fall.
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Two Sonnets for Gandalf:
I Return
(From Shakespeare's Sonnet XLV)
These skills two, slight air and burning fire,
Are both in me, wherever I abide;
The first my thought, the other my power.
These present troubles when swift events collide
And when these quicker elements were gone from me,
A desperate command for all to flee.
My life, being pulled by fire, left you alone;
Falling down to death, oppress'd with melancholy;
Until my life's composition be recur'd
By one swift-wing'd eagle return'd for me.
Tho' even now I've come back again, assur'd
Of thy far travels, recounted to me:
This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,
I recall the danger back again, and straight grow sad.
This Cold Wandering (Gandalf)
(From Shakespeare's Sonnet XCVII)
How like a winter hath my absence been
From thee, the agony of the fleeting year!
What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen!
What rocky, cold barrenness everywhere!
Yes, this time remov'd was a desperate time:
Their wandering season sorrow did increase,
Bearing the terrible burden of the Ring,
Like leaderless soldiers after their lords' decease,
And this frail questing seem'd to me
But hope of orphans, and withering fruit;
For Sauron in his tower seeks for thee,
And thou away, the very lands are mute;
Or, if they sing, 'tis with so dull a cheer,
Two Sonnets for Samwise:
I'll Serve Thee
(Based on Shakespeare’s Sonnet XXVI)
Master of my love, to whom in vassalage
They merit hath my duty strongly knit,
To thee I give this faithful embassage,
To witness duty, and to use my wit.
Duty so great, which wit so poor as mine
May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it;
But that I hope some good favour of thine
In thy soul’s thought, in wisdom, will bestow it:
Till that Elven star that guides by moving,
Points on me graciously with fair aspect,
And puts new apparel on my tatter’s loving,
To show me worthy of they sweet respect:
Then may I dare to boast how I did serve thee,
Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me.
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These Last Pages (Sam)
(Based on Shakespeare’s Sonnet CVIII)
What’s in the heart that ink may character,
Which hath not figure’d to thee my true spirit?
What’s new to speak, what new to register,
That may express my love or thine dear merit?
Nothing, sweet master; but yet, like prayers divine,
I must each day say o’er the very same;
Counting no old tale old, for mine art thine.
Even as when first I beheld thy fair hand
Encased in light of star, recede to distant shore.
Weigh not the dust and injury of age,
Nor give to necessary wrinkles place,
But make antiquity for aye this written page;
Finding the first spark of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show it dead.
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Four Sonnets for Aragorn:
Keeping Watch in the Night
(Based on William Shakespeare’s Sonnet LXI )
What it my will, this image should keep open
My heavy eyelids to the weary night?
In quiet, lest their slumbers should be broken,
What shadows like blackness do mock my sight?
What is this spirit that pursue'st one small,
So far from his home to my hands to keep,
To find out hidden burdens, lands over all,
The scope and tenor of his life to reap?
O, no! Duty, though much, is not so great:
It is my love that keeps mine eye awake:
Mine own true heart that doth my rest defeat,
To play the watchman ever for their sake:
For these watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,
From me far off, with others all too near.
My Time Comes But Slowly (Aragorn)
(Based on Sonnet CXXXIII)
Beshrew that crown that makes my heart to groan
For that empty throne it gives Gondor and me!
Is't not enough to torture me alone,
But slave to Stewards my sweet'st land must be?
Far from my hands this heavy fate hath taken,
And my next goal this harder fate engrossed:
Of reign, myself, I fear I am forsaken;
A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed.
Prison my heart with this steel, flaming, ward,
For then Isildur sets my poor heart bail;
Howe'er I'm kept, let my heart have this guard;
None canst turn then, Lineage is my jail:
And yet I wilt; for I, being giv'n reknown,
Perforce am theirs, and wearer of their crown.
The Throne and the Chair (Aragorn)
(Based on Sonnet CXXXII )
These thrones beheld, and they, as pitying me,
Knowing my heart torments me with disdain,
Have put on black and thus in mourning be,
Looking with empty seats upon my pain.
And truly not the Steward's House of Gondor
Fallen, become the grey ash of the East,
Their waning star that ushers in to ponder,
Gives half that glory to the sober West,
As those two empty seats become my own:
O! let it then as well beseem my heart-
They wait for me, and waiting I have grown,
To suit this city, King in every part.
Then will I swear beauty silver and black,
And my place betake, that no King they lack.
Fulfill Your Oath (Aragorn at Erech)
(Based on Sonnet LXXIX )
Whilst I alone could call upon thy aid,
My voice alone could give thee any grace;
For now thy trait'rous numbers are decay'd,
And thy dead lives called to another place.
I grant, by right, thy tortured argument
Deserved the travails of thy mountainous pen;
Yet forth from this my summons, doth repent
Ye rob'd thy Word, and pay'd it back again.
I lend thee virtue, for ye stole that Word
From thy behaviour; honor doth I give,
To bring it back, thy own: I can afford
No praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.
So thank me not for that which I doth say,
Since what you oweth here, thou thyself dost pay.
