“tom bombadil”

In shadowed woods where sunbeams spill  
There dwells the old Tom Bombadil—  
His boots are blue, his jacket green,  
His laughter rings through boughs unseen.  
With hat askew and bounding stride,  
He sings where Withywindle hides,  
And lilies nod beside his path  
Made golden by the sun’s own laugh.  

The willow bows and barrows hush  
To hear Tom’s song and feel the rush  
Of wind that tumbles with his tune—  
He’s mad as spring, as old as June.  
He speaks in riddles, dances free,  
The master there, yet never king;  
He guards with mirth and open hand  
The wild and whispered, wondrous land.  

No shadow mars his merry heart—  
He watched the world from its first start.  
He knows the stones, he knows the trees,  
He weaves his words among the bees.  
O, lovely Goldberry, his sweet,  
Awaits him there with twinkling feet,  
River-daughter, water-grown,  
With laughter gentle as her own.  

Tom’s is the song before the dawn,  
A mystery dancing on the lawn—  
Unriddled, wild, and ever free,  
Friend to root and bumblebee.  
He lives while willow branches bend,  
A joy the shadow cannot end—  
Old Tom Bombadil, the wild and wise,  
Bright in Middle-earth’s dreaming eyes.

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