Where will wants not, a way opens.
There is no curse in Elvish, Entish, or the tongues of Men for this treachery.
I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure.
Leave him! I said. I never mean to. I am going with him, if he climbs to the Moon; and if any of these Black Riders try to stop him, they’ll have Sam Gamgee to reckon with, I said. They laughed.
Splendid! They used to go up like great lilies and snapdragons and laburnums of fire and hang in the twilight all evening!
No language is justly studied merely as an aid to other purposes. It will in fact better serve other purposes, philological or historical, when it is studied for love, for itself.
Look, up at the sky. There is a light, a beauty up there, that no shadow can touch.
Wars are not favourable to delicate pleasures.
See your road through.
Their horses were of great stature, strong and clean-limbed; their gray coats glistened, their long tails flowed in the wind, their manes were braided on their proud necks.
Faerie is a perilous land, and in it are pitfalls for the unwary, and dungeons for the overbold.
I cordially dislike allegory in all its manifestations, and always have done since I grew old and wary enough to detect its presence.
But do not despise the lore that has come down from distant years; for oft it may chance that old wives keep in memory word of things that once were needful for the wise to know.
The wolf that one hears is worse than the orc that one fears.
The Nazgul they were; the Ringwraiths, the Enemy’s most terribly servants; darkness went with them and they cried with the voices of death.
He was as noble and fair in face as an elf-lord, as strong as a warrior, as wise as a wizard, as venerable as a king of dwarves, and as kind as summer.
Farewell we call to hearth and hall! Though wind may blow and rain may fall. We must away ere the break of day. Far over wood and mountain tall.
Sleep! I feel the need of it, as never I thought any dwarf could, riding is tiring work. Yet my axe is restless in my hand. Give me a row of orc-necks and room to swing and all weariness will fall from me!
When Mr. Bilbo Baggins of Bag End announced that he would shortly be celebrating his eleventy-first birthday with a party of special magnificence, there was much talk and excitement in Hobbiton.
The one small garden of a free gardener was all his need and due, not a garden swollen to a realm; his own hands to use, not the hands of others to command.