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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.

J. R. R. Tolkien

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J. R. R. Tolkien
Age: 81 †
Born: 1892
Born: January 3
Died: 1973
Died: September 2
Author
Essayist
Historian
Illustrator
Linguist
Literary Critic
Military Officer
Poet
Teacher
Translator
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
John R. R. Tolkien
J-R-R Tolkien
Tolkien
J.R.R. Tolkien
J. R. R. Tolkien
Yellow
Summers
Hair
Silver
Meadow
Seen
Flowers
Butterflies
Fire
Leaves
Meadows
Morning
Summer
Mist
Upon
Beside
Nature
Sun
Butterfly
Autumns
Think
Flower
Autumn
Gossamer
Thinking
Wind

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The doom lies in yourself, not in your name.
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On their deathbed men will speak true, they say.
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You cannot pass, he said. The orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. I am a servant of the Secret Fire, wielder of the flame of Anor. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, flame of Udûn. Go back to the Shadow! You cannot pass.
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He was as noble and fair in face as an elf-lord, as strong as a warrior, as wise as a wizard, as venerable as a king of dwarves, and as kind as summer.
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There is nothing like looking, if you want to find something.
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True education is a kind of never-ending story . . .
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Frodo drew himself up, and again Sam was startled by his words and his stern voice. 'On the Precious? How dare you?' he said. 'Think! Would you commit your promise to that, Smeagol? It will hold you. But it is more treacherous than you are. It may twist your words. Beware!
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I don't see why the likes o' thee Without axin' leave should go makin' free With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin So hand the old bone over! Rover! Trover! Though dead he be, it belongs to he So hand the old bnone over!
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And then all the host of Rohan burst into song, and they sang as they slew, for the joy of battle was on them, and the sound of their singing that was fair and terrible came even to the City.
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His love for Frodo rose above all other thoughts, and forgetting his peril he cried aloud: 'I'm coming Mr. Frodo!
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It matters little who is the enemy, if we cannot beat off his attack.
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Here ends the SILMARILLION. If it has passed from the high and the beautiful to darkness and ruin, that was of old the fate of Arda Marred and if any change shall come and the Marring be amended, Manwë and Varda may know but they have not revealed it, and it is not declared in the dooms of Mandos.
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Frodo: Go back, Sam! I’m going to Mordor alone. Sam: Of course you are, and I’m coming with you!
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Renewed shall be blade that was broken, The crownless again shall be king.
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I'm in a position where it doesn't matter what people think of me now.
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O! Where are you going With beards all a-wagging? No knowing, no knowing What brings Mister Baggins, And Balin and Dwalin down into the valley in June ha! ha!
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The wise speak only of what they know
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He stands not alone. You would die before your stroke fell.
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Fantasy remains a human right: we make in our measure and in our derivative mode, because we are made: and not only made, but made in the image and likeness of a Maker.
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But I have been too deeply hurt, Sam. I tried to save the Shire, and it has been saved, but not for me. It must often be so, Sam, when things are in danger: some one has to give them up, lose them, so that others may keep them.
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