Túrin Son of Húrin & Glórund the
Lo
the golden dragon of the God of Hell, the gloom of the woods of the world now gone, the woes of Men, and weeping of Elves fading faintly down forest pathways, is now to tell, and the name most tear...
I followed the narrow cliffside trail half way up the
Above the deep river-canyon
There was a little cataract crossed the path, flinging
Over tree roots and rocks, shaking the jeweled fern-fronds, bright bubbling
Long ago in a poultry
One dull November morn,
Beneath a motherly soft wingA little goose was born
Who straightway peeped out of the
As I lay with my head in your lap, camerado,
The confession I made I resume — what I said to you in the open air I resume:
I know I am restless, and make others so;
I know my words are weapons, full of danger, full of death;