He clasps his warm and gnarled hands
Hunching over, near to the fire.
His grey robes, travel-stained and worn
Witnessed leagues; he is that tired.
They conceal his well-worn boots beneath
And are wrapped with his belt of leather.
Beside him waits his battered hat
A survivor of varied weather.
In the midst of his silvery beard and hair,
His blue eyes seem piercing, or soft.
They shine, or twinkle or make comment mild
When he holds his white brows aloft.
Long into the night he sits and talks,
And enjoys the peace of this hole.
He sees Bilbo, who hasn't aged a day,
Will give Frodo the greater role.
The cup beside him is too small,
The tea inside long gone cold,
But the companionship of his dear old friend
Fills his heart, and rests his soul.
