By It’s only the beginning of August, but there is a chill in the air in the mornings that awakens the wistful thoughts of fall, and this little song, sung by old Bilbo comes to mind. It’s not just the fall of the year, but the fall of life that beckons.
I sit beside the fire and think
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
J.R.R. Tolkien
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I sit beside the fire and think, by J.R.R. Tolkien
It’s only the beginning of August, but there is a chill in the air in the mornings that awakens the wistful thoughts of fall, and this little song, sung by old Bilbo comes to mind. It’s not just the fall of the year, but the fall of life that beckons.
beside the fire
I sit beside the fire and think
I sit beside the fire and think
of all that I have seen
of meadow-flowers and butterflies
in summers that have been;
Of yellow leaves and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mist and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I shall ever see.
For still there are so many things
that I have never seen:
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
J.R.R. Tolkien
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