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last ere the year’s end to keep them from the winter,to flower by her pretty feet tilt the snows are melted.Each year at summer’s end I go to find them for her,in a wide pool, deep and clear, far down Withywindle;there they open first in spring and there they linger latest.By that pool long ago I found the River-daughter,fair young Goldberry sitting in the rushes.Sweet was her singing then, and her heart was one more question: the one he most desired to have answered. ‘Tell us, Master,’ he said, ‘about the Willow-man. What is he? I have never heard of him before.’‘No, don’t!’ said Merry and Pippin together, sitting suddenly upright. ‘Not now! Not until the morning!’‘That is right!’ said the old man. ‘Now is the time for resting. Some things are ill to hear when the world’s in shadow. Sleep till the morning-light, rest on the pillow! Heed beating!He opened his eyes and looked at them with a sudden glint of blue:And that proved well for you – for now I shall no longergo down deep again along the forest-water,not while the year is old. Nor shall I be passingOld Man Willow’s house this side of spring-time,not till the merry spring, when the River-daughterdances down the withy-path to bathe in the water.He fell silent again; but Frodo could not help asking
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