would i that we were as we should:
for the soil of our home was deep
where we first grew. but we climbed
and have tasted the crystals that grow
in the thinnest of air above the earth, and now know
the sweetness of the cost of our peace.
begrudge not the ones who still do not see.
for them it was written to sing among the grapevines
and to befoul the air with curses against the little beetles.
they shall know one day how the heavens strained
against the pressure of the dark. the hour to tell
what has been ripens slowly. all will be revealed
when the apple of time falls.
“Dear me! We Tooks and Brandybucks, we can’t live long on the heights.”
“No,” said Merry. “I can’t. Not yet, at any rate. But at least, Pippin, we can now see them, and honour them. It is best to love first what you are fitted to love, I suppose: you must start somewhere and have some roots, and the soil of the Shire is deep. Still there are things deeper and higher, and not a gaffer could tend his garden in what he calls peace but for them, whether he knows about them or not. I am glad that I know about them, a little.” -J.R.R. Tolkien
I’m writing a poem every day. You can read about why here.