A golden band, cradled in a hobbit hand
Simple band of gold, so bright,
so beautiful in the new moon’s light,
pure and innocent it doth seem,
and precious with it’s lustrous sheen
naught to disturb an innocent’s dream,
or snare him unawares.
Yet at night he wakes alone,
Cold, unfed, and far from home
He wakes to find it in his grasp
And caressing it the night dost pass.
Again to sleep with it tightly clasped,
As it feeds upon his soul.
Once blythe spirit feels the loss,
Wounded body counts the cost
Gentle hobbit with grubby hand
Stained and bruised in a bitter land
Chained and bound to a golden band
And an Age’s one last hope