The Shire-Wife



Bitter, bitter is the sip
Allowed to me in this dead land.
The drops of liquid should be sweet,
Like honey to a young childís lip.

Why should there be a desert here?
Where tears, the tears of Elf and Man
Shed to the rhyme of martial beat,
Should pool to shape the Dark Lordís mere?

The rain of Doom, the falling ash,
Lies heavy on the poisoned world,
Full-heralding a cruel tide,
A slave-ship sped by chain and lash.

Day's ending spreads her dead-cold wing.
Night comes; there are no stars unfurled.
I am wedded to a far green bride
And I must die a-sorrowing.

For you, my love, lest burning come to you.

 


C. Baillie / '03

Christianity and Middle Earth