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 flowers and gossamer
in autumns that there were,
with morning mists and silver sun
and wind upon my hair.
I sit beside the fire and think
of how the world will be
when winter comes without a spring
that I will ever see.
for still there are so many things
that I have never seen;
in every wood in every spring
there is a different green.
I sit beside the fire and think
of people long ago,
and people who will see a world
that I shall never know.
But all the while I sit and think
of times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
and voices at the door.
CLICK ON BILBO TO RETURN