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 leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were,
With morning mist 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 shall 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 the times there were before,
I listen for returning feet
And voices at the door.
 

composed by Bilbo Baggins