Go not thither, brave halfling!
This world will be a colder place
Without your warmth,
without your beauty,
without your wisdom,
It will be a place where children play
And folk talk of trivial things
in the fading summer hours;
Dragons and Trolls in the clouds
And buried treasure in the sandbox
but no Adventure to be found
but what we make ourselves.
Go not, gentle hero!
Can you not find a place here to store your grief?
Is it so big
that only the sea can contain it?
So deep that the soil of the Shire
Cannot fill it?
So stained that
tears cannot wash it clean?
Why do you hurt more than
the children who lost their fathers
in Rohan and Gondor and Erebor?
The Dwarves that lost their king?
The Elves who lost their trees?
All these people are free to grieve
because you did a deed that saved us all.
If you must go, then I go with you.
I will build you a ship with the last tree in Middle-earth.
She has a proud mast
to catch the wind of Manwe.
And a sound hull
So that Ulmo will bear us smoothly.
Her lantern is a Star,
the light of which is in your hand.
She will bear you to where you can rest,
leaving the decay of your existance behind
to find new beauty and light,
to fill the void in your soul.
They will welcome you there
and you will sing to the Valar and tell stories
to the Children in the House of Lost Play.