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The lake looks still, from my point on the hill,
But this I know, neath the surface it tos and fros,
With life that my eyes cannot see,
Which moves around hurriedly,
To the currents ebb and flows.
I see the light from the town, atop the hills crown,
And see works of stone, younger than the hills bones,
And like the fish the cars hurry,
All amidst a world of worry,
And here I sit all on my own.
And all amidst the leaves of trees, as autumn grows and summer flees,
This new theorem I propose, that all amidst their quiet repose,
They sit and watch the long years roll by,
And mortal men they see live and die,
But of their thoughts I can only suppose.
Yet on the slow path I must walk, and yet with life I can talk,
And discourse hold with bough and branch, as task to which I wouldn’t blanch,
And all throughout my life’s long days,
Ill tread the lost paths and forgotten ways,
But, for now, I sit alone.
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"This is the hour of the Shire-folk, when they arise from their quiet fields to shake the towers and counsels of the Great. Who of all the Wise could have foreseen it? Or, if they are wise, why should they expect to know it, until the hour has struck? "
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