Always ones for adventures,
the mad Squires living under-hill were....
But he'd no right,
to take my lad on his fool's errand,
no right to steal away with nary a word.
'Tis nigh on a year now,
a year since they returned.
Travelers they call themselves,
the Took and the Brandybuck
fine and silver-gold in their fancy gear
beneath the sun….
But t'other Brandybuck, and my lad...
like dark behind the stars,
like frost twining cold-cruel to buried roots...
like a dreme from which there is no waking.
E'en in the sweated mob of the Dragon,
and more silence lies about them,
damping the laughter of the Master's fine cousins,
pulling the smiles from faces
tightened by worry....
I have no large words like the Master,
(nor the one before him)
but I have eyes to see.....
Like a fallow field,
though life runs and leaps
And my lad.
My poor lad.
Carried his Master
up that fiery mountain,
so they tell me….
Carried him and hope withal.
Oh, my son.
He took it fearful hard,
little Samwise did,
the night Bell left us...
like the sky had over-turned and spilled all that
And there was naught he could do,
naught to help it....
naught to stop it.
And I recollect his fingers held to the fence-pole,
like he might float away himself, else....
and I wonder what might hold him here, now.....
now that there is naught.