The King beneath the mountains, The King of carven stone, The lord of silver fountains Shall come into his own! His crown shall be upholden, His harp shall be restrung, His halls shall echo golden To songs of yore re-sung. The woods shall wave on mountains. And grass beneath the sun; His wealth shall flow in fountains And the rivers golden run. The streams shall run in gladness, The lakes shall shine and burn, And sorrow fail and sadness At the Mountain-king’s return!

You ought not to be rude to an eagle, when you are only the size of a hobbit, and are up in hid eyrie at night!

And that's the way of a real tale. Take any one that you're fond of. You may know, or guess, what kind of a tale it is, happy-ending or sad-ending, but the people in it don't know. And you don't want them to.

And then her heart changed, or at least she understood it; and the winter passed, and the sun shone upon her.

People remember Longfellow wrote Hiawatha, quite forget he was a Professor of Modern Languages!

For it is easier to shout 'Stop', than to do it

Green are the leaves I leave in Mirkwood.