In a hole in the ground there lived a hobbit.
One Ring to rule them all,
One Ring to find them,
One Ring to bring them all and in the Darkness bind them.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all who wander are lost.
The love of the Elves for their land and their works is deeper than the deeps of the Sea, and their regret is undying and cannot ever wholly be assuaged.
Mithrandir, Mithrandir sang the Elves, O Pilgrim Grey! For so they loved to call him. But if Legolas was with the Company, he would not interpret the songs for them, saying that he had not the skill, and that for him the grief was still to near, a matter for tears and not yet for song.
“Elves?” said a third, doubtfully.
“Nay, not elves,” said the fourth, the tallest, and as it appeared the chief among them. “Elves do not walk in Ithilien in these days. And elves are wondrous fair to look upon, or so ’tis said.”
“Meaning we’re not, I take you,” said Sam. “Thank you kindly.”
“And the smell of the air! I used to spend a week just breathing.”
“One who cannot cast away a treasure at need is in fetters.”
“I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Numenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise.”
“Many are my names in many countries: Mithrandir among the Elves, Tharkûn to the Dwarves; Olórin I was in my youth in the West that is forgotten, in the South Incánus, in the North Gandalf; to the East I go not.”