Hail Arien, fair Sun-maiden!
You cast your pale spears across Midle-earth
Bathing this little land in your glory.
Little had I imagined aught outside Valinor,
The light, the splendour, the majestic power.
Yet, clad as I am as an old Man
‘Tis never too late to learn
Much sweetness, much warmth do I feel
These tiny folk: simple…
Carefree, not bothered with the great Troubles.
Aah! Hobbits, you think I come for pleasure?
Nay, nay. I envy the serene sylvan solitude.
To rest awhile from my labours in the World outside.
Many Lords ask with contempt
“Where is thy abode, Master Greyhame?”
Hah! Abode? Where shall I find joy?
In castles that I know shall perish?
In towers that I know shall fall?
Here, a lonely pilgrim at the door,
Of some fat hobbit: Baggins, or Took, or some tom-fool,
Here shall I abide, and rest awhile:
The cares and burdens lightened
By their stupid yet thrice-blessed tom-foolery.
Not as a lord, nor as an Arch-Sorcerer do I come.
Nay, just a weary grey pilgrim.
And these blessed memories,
Of streams, little fields, the freshly cut corn,
Of stubborn ponies, and yet more stubborn Halflings,
Green meadows, and large waistcoats,
These are the memories
That I shall carry with me,
When I sail at last.
Till then, my love goes to thee, sweet land of the shire…