Life goes on a pace with the others here. Uncle Sennie seems to be in a festive mood--I think he has some guests over--perhaps I should venture out of the Pantry Smial and be sociable, sociable as I haven't been of late, but books have been my most constant partners as the days have grown short *thumbs through a book on his desk* for I find solace in such like-minded companions as I find here:
Come, darkest night, becoming sorrow best;
Light, leave thy light, fit for a lightsome soul;
Darkness doth truly suit with me oppressed,
Whom absence' power doth from mirth control:
The very trees with hanging heads condole
Sweet summer's parting, and of leaves distressed
In dying colours make a griefful roll,
So much, alas, to sorrow are they pressed.
Thus of dead leaves her farewell carpet's made:
Their fall, their branches, all their mournings prove,
With leafless, naked bodies, whose hues vade
From hopeful green, to wither in their love:
If trees and leaves for absence mourners be,
No marvel that I grieve, who like want see.
Lady Mary Wroth, a poet worthy of hobbit angst: Sonnet XIX, 1621
You see, I haven't been much fit for company of late, really.