This excerpt from Wordsworth’s ‘Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey‘ I’m claiming as part of an in-universe poem Theodred wrote in Sindarin in an effort to attempt a particularly archaic genre of poetry in Gondor that takes it’s inspirations from other Elven works. (A genre that often relied on natural landscapes to convey a melancholic feeling, either about the future or the past)
If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—
If I should be where I no more can hear
Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
Of past existence—wilt thou then forget
That on the banks of this delightful stream
We stood together; and that I, so long
A worshipper of Nature, hither came
Unwearied in that service: rather say
With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal
Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
That after many wanderings, many years
Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
It started as a challenge to himself, both for the language he didn’t usually compose in AND for the subject matter than he usually found trite. But he found a great well of feeling to write from, in the end, when contemplating his newly-orphaned cousins who now lived with him, along with a great unspoken affinity with the earth and lands about him that he had never really understood within himself until then. In the end the poem became about Eowyn, which surprised him.
He published it in Gondor, (under a pseudonym of course as he did with all his poetry with different names each time), and it received quite high acclaim for being both contemporary to the genre whilst also maintaining the basic foundation of it. Theodred himself stopped being able to read it as the years went by and Eowyn never had the chance to read it.
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i’m such a “i want your attention” but “won’t bother you” kinda person
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the fact that i'm no longer the same age as the protagonists of novels and films i once connected to is so heartbreaking. there was a time when I looked forward to turning their age. i did. and i also outgrew them. i continue to age, but they don't; never will. the immortality of fiction is beautiful, but cruel.
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"Absolutely no one comes to save us but us."
Ismatu Gwendolyn, "you've been traumatized into hating reading (and it makes you easier to oppress)", from Threadings, on Substack [ID'd]
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A customer contacted our team with questions, and then finished their email with: "I am daunted by the complexities and unknowns." I haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.
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[covered in blood, with tears in my eyes] I AM VERY YOUNG AND I AM LEARNING HOW TO LIVE
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