“And long there he lay, an image of the splendour of the Kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world.”

“Now, therefore, I will sleep. I speak no comfort to you, for there is no comfort for such pain within the circles of the world. The uttermost choice is before you: to repent and go to the Havens and bear away into the West the memory of our days together that shall there be evergreen but never more than memory; or else to abide the Doom of Men." Nay, dear lord," she said, "that choice is long over. There is now no ship that would bear me hence, and I must indeed abide the Doom of Men, whether I will or I nill: the loss and the silence. But I say to you, King of the Numenoreans, not till now have I understood the tale of your people and their fall. As wicked fools I scorned them, but I pity them at last. For if this is indeed, as the Eldar say, the gift of the One to Men, it is bitter to receive." So it seems," he said. "But let us not be overthrown at the final test, who of old renounced the Shadow and the Ring. In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! we are not bound for ever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory.”

“even as he took her hand and kissed it, he fell into sleep. Then a great beauty was revealed in him, so that all who after came there looked on him in wonder; for they saw that the grace of his youth, and the valour of his manhood, and the wisdom and majesty of his age were blended together. And long there he lay, an image of the splendour of the Kings of Men in glory undimmed before the breaking of the world.”

“The world was young, the mountains green,No stain yet on the Moon was seen,No words were laid on stream or stoneWhen Durin woke and walked alone.He named the nameless hills and dells;He drank from yet untasted wells;He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,And saw a crown of stars appear,As gems upon a silver thread,Above the shadow of his head.The world was fair, the mountains tall,In Elder Days before the fallOf mighty kings in NargothrondAnd Gondolin, who now beyondThe Western Seas have passed away:The world was fair in Durin's Day.A king he was on carven throneIn many-pillared halls of stoneWith golden roof and silver floor,And runes of power upon the door.The light of sun and star and moonIn shining lamps of crystal hewnUndimmed by cloud or shade of nightThere shone for ever fair and bright.There hammer on the anvil smote,There chisel clove, and graver wrote;There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;The delver mined, the mason built.There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,And metal wrought like fishes' mail,Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,And shining spears were laid in hoard.Unwearied then were Durin's folk;Beneath the mountains music woke:The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,And at the gates the trumpets rang.The world is grey, the mountains old,The forge's fire is ashen-cold;No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;The shadow lies upon his tombIn Moria, in Khazad-dûm.But still the sunken stars appearIn dark and windless Mirrormere;There lies his crown in water deep,Till Durin wakes again from sleep.-The Song of Durin”

“Nobody believes me when I say that my long book is an attempt to create a world in which a form of language agreeable to my personal aesthetic might seem real. But it is true.”

“He loved mountains, or he had loved the thought of them marching on the edge of stories brought from far away; but now he was borne down by the insupportable weight of Middle-earth. He longed to shut out the immensity in a quiet room by a fire.”

“He did not go much further, but sat down on the cold floor and gave himself up to complete miserableness, for a long while. He thought of himself frying bacon and eggs in his own kitchen at home - for he could feel inside that it was high time for some meal or other; but that only made him miserabler.”