To whatever end. Where is the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing? They have passed like rain on the mountains. Like wind in the meadow. The days have gone down in the west. Behind the hills, into shadow. How did it come to this?

A box without hinges, key, or lid, yet golden treasure inside is hid.

It is mine, I tell you. My own. My precious. Yes, my precious.

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.

Faithful heart may have froward tongue.

It is wisdom to recognize necessity when all other courses have been weighed, though as folly it may appear to those who cling to false hope.

It never does to leave a live Dragon out of the equation.