Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin’s Day will shine upon the key-hole.

For a while they stood there, like men on the edge of a sleep where nightmare lurks, holding it off, though they know that they can only come to morning through the shadows.

Most English-speaking people, for instance, will admit that cellar door is 'beautiful', especially if dissociated from its sense (and its spelling). More beautiful than, say, sky, and far more beautiful than beautiful. Well then, in Welsh for me cellar doors are extraordinarily frequent.

Truly songs and tales fall utterly short of the reality, O Smaug the Chiefest and greatest of Calamities.

A friend of mine tells that I talk in shorthand and then smudge it.

A pen is to me as a beak is to a hen.

Wraiths! Wraiths on wings!