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Roads Go Ever On by JRR Tolkien 

























Roads go ever ever on,
Over rock and under tree,
By caves where never sun has shone,
By streams that never find the sea;
Over snow by winter sown,
And through the merry flowers of June,
Over grass and over stone,
And under mountains in the moon.

Roads go ever ever on,
Under cloud and under star.
Yet feet that wandering have gone
Turn at last to home afar.
Eyes that fire and sword have seen,
And horror in the halls of stone
Look at last on meadows green,
And trees and hills they long have known.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.

The Road goes ever on and on
Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with weary feet,
Until it joins some larger way,
Where many paths and errands meet.
And whither then? I cannot say.

The Road goes ever on and on
Out from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone.
Let others follow, if they can!
Let them a journey new begin.
But I at last with weary feet
Will turn towards the lighted inn,
My evening-rest and sleep to meet.

Still 'round the corner there may wait
A new road or secret gate;
And though I oft have passed them by,
A day will come at last when I
Shall take the hidden paths that run
West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

THE DRAGONS ARE SINGING TONIGHT  



Tonight is the night that all dragons 

Awake in their lairs underground, 

To sing in cacophonous chorous 

And fill the whole world with their sound. 

They sing of the days of their glory, 

They sing of their exploits of old, 

Of maidens and knights, and of fiery fights, 

And guarding vast caches of gold. 

Some of their voices are treble, 

And some of their voices are deep, 

But all of their voices are thunderous, 

And no one can get any sleep. 

I lie in my bed and I listen, 

Enchanted and filled with delight, 

To songs I can hear only one night a year

The dragons are singing tonight.

 

-J. Pretlutsky


THIS MOMENT 



Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise


Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these sunken eyes and learn to see

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to be free


Blackbird fly, blackbird fly

Into the light of the dark black night


Blackbird fly, blackbird fly

Into the light of the dark black night


Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

You were only waiting for this moment to arise

You were only waiting for this moment to arise


—John Lennon & Paul McCartney

 

RAIN by Don Paterson 



I love all films that start with rain:

rain, braiding a windowpane

or darkening a hung-out dress

or streaming down her upturned face;

 

one big thundering downpour

right through the empty script and score

before the act, before the blame,

before the lens pulls through the frame

 

to where the woman sits alone

beside a silent telephone

or the dress lies ruined on the grass

or the girl walks off the overpass,

 

and all things flow out from that source

along their fatal watercourse.

However bad or overlong

such a film can do no wrong,

 

so when his native twang shows through

or when the boom dips into view

or when her speech starts to betray

its adaptation from the play,

 

I think to when we opened cold

on a starlit gutter, running gold

with the neon of a drugstore sign

and I'd read into its blazing line:

 

forget the ink, the milk, the blood –

all was washed clean with the flood

we rose up from the falling waters

the fallen rain's own sons and daughters

 

and none of this, none of this matters.

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