“The moon rises. The red cubs rollingIn the ferns by the rotten oakStare over a marsh and a meadowTo the farm's white wisp of smoke.A spark burns, high in heaven.Deer thread the blossoming rowsOf the old orchard, rabbitsHop by the well-curb. The cock crowsFrom the tree by the widow's walk;Two stars in the trees to the west,Are snared, and an owl's soft cryRuns like a breath through the forest.Here too, though death is hushed, though joyObscures, like night, their wars,The beings of this world are sweptBy the Strife that moves the stars.”

“Not just beautiful, though--the stars are like the trees in the forest, alive and breathing. And they're watching me.”

“Inside plum trees stood in a row, flowers lifted their pale throats to the moon and stars, a magnolia held its tight-closed buds like white candles in its green hands.”

“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

“The trees, the flowers, the plants grow in silence. The stars, the sun, the moon move in silence. Silence gives us a new perspective.”

“So the days slipped away, as each morning dawned bright and fair, and each evening followed cool and clear. But autumn was waning fast; slowly the golden light faded to pale silver, and the lingering leaves fell from the naked trees. A wind began to blow chill from the Misty Mountains to the east. The Hunter's Moon waxed round in the night sky, and put to flight all the lesser stars. But low in the South one star shone red. Every night, as the Moon waned again, it shone brighter and brighter. Frodo could see it from his window, deep in the heavens, burning like a watchful eye that glared above the trees on the brink of the valley.”