Poem

A Poem of the Day

I am not a hero whose song will be sung
in the courts of the kings or the common.
No horn will recall me, no bell will be rung
To remember the name or the deeds done.
Me, I shall not call who forgets me unkind,
Still not void were my deeds of some glory;
But the skalds sing of names, feats more glorious than mine,
and of men more deserving a story.

Nor am I a hero whose tale will be told
As a captain of men and a leader;
Though I was no traitor, nor was I less bold
Than the least of my company's soldiers.

Long has the autumn wind
reaped the last leaves
from the boughs of the oak-tree
that stands on the hill.
All nature lies still,
the wind ceased its dancing,
the leaves lie unmoving,
frozen in death.
Holding its breath,
Waiting - awaiting:
As if time too had frozen;
Silent the lands lie.
At last, from the sky
a crystal, a flower,
the softest of snowflakes
falls down on the hill.
And yet, it is still.
Only the whisper

Thick dusk had fallen cross the land

When our heroes found the orcs

Foul ugly beasts, dressed with rags

And armed with cruel boar-forks

With stealth our heroes advanced

Outnumbered, though they were

And crept into the orcish camp

And battled them right there

Who fills now the meadows
With shining white blossoms?
Who fills now the forests
With needles like leaves?

No warm winds make grow them,
No summer makes ripen
The fruit in the fields
That the farmer has sown.

No autumn wind colours
The forests with brightness,
The shade of the needles
Not dark on the pines.

As white as the blossoms,
So white stands the forest:
In frozen bright beauty
Paints winter his land.

Pies and tarts, a slice or two,
A bowl of soup, a bowl of stew,
Give me some bread to dunk in too,
And to that, a pint of brew.

A freshly caught and roasted fish,
With a big, full potato dish,
And of course a slice of quiche,
That is a Hobbit's dinner wish!

Some mutton always tastes fine,
If served with sauce and eggs in brine,
Then later some delicious wine,
Of course best servéd in a pint!

For dessert, I am fond of cake
And berry-pies I'll gladly take.
But if I should partake of steak,

Sing to the summer, the season of warmth, the sun and the fruit in the fields;
But welcome the autumn, the fall of the leaves, the artist of colour and change.

In red and golden leaves it paints, in cold and starry sky,
In fiery grass and flaming fruits, in misty fingers grey.
The winds it calls from east and west, from north and southern plains,
The clouds it shepherds to its will, bright sun and early rains.

Is this a real pie? Is this just fantasy?
Caught in a hunger dream, got no key for the pantry!
Open your eyes, just grab a slice and see...
I'm a poor Hobbit, I need pie regularly...
A little apple pie, cherry pie, mushroom pie, berry pie...
Any flavour really, it doesn't really matter, to me, to me.

Mama, just stole a pie, put a slice upon my plate, then I took a spoon and ate...
Mama, once I had begun, I just couldn't stop eating till it was gone.
Mama, oooh, didn't mean to eat all the pie, and now we won't have any pie tomorrow...