Racconti di Tolkien

Where once was light now darkness falls

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"Not all who wander are lost"

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    tom bombadil

    Il tuo augurio ti puoi tenere!

    ‘Talk less, Fisher Blue! Keep your kindly wishes!
    Fly off and preen yourself with the bones of fishes!
    Gay lord on your bough, at home a dirty varlet
    living in a sloven house, though your breast be scarlet.
    I’ve heard of fisher-birds beak in air a-dangling
    to show how the wind is set: that’s an end of angling!’
    …
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    Conosco lì un popol piccino

    ‘Whee! Tom Bombadil! Whither be you going,
    bobbing in a cockle-boat, down the river rowing?’
    ‘Maybe to Brandywine along the Withywindle;
    maybe friends of mine fire for me will kindle
    down by the Hays-end. Little folk I know there,
    kind at the day’s end.
    …
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    scorri Sinuosalice su bassifondi e abissi!

    Tom laughed to himself: ‘Maybe then I’ll go there.
    I might go by other ways, but today I’ll row there.’
    He shaved oars, patched his boat; from hidden creek he hauled her
    through reed and sallow-brake, under leaning alder,
    then down the river went, singing: ‘Silly-sallow,
    Flow withy-willow-stream over deep and shallow!’
    …
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    Bombadil goes Boating

    Little Bird sat on twig. ‘Whillo, Tom! I heed you.
    I’ve a guess, I’ve a guess where your fancies lead you.
    Shall I go, shall I go, bring him word to meet you?’
    ‘No names, you tell-tale, or I’ll skin and eat you,
    babbling in every ear things that don’t concern you!
    …
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    Le brezze oggi mi donano un bel giorno felice

    The old year was turning brown; the West Wind was calling;
    Tom caught a beechen leaf in the Forest falling.
    ‘I’ve caught a happy day blown me by the breezes!
    Why wait till morrow-year? I’ll take it when me pleases.
    This day I’ll mend my boat and journey as it chances
    west down the withy-stream, following my fancies!’
    …
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    dormì fino all’alba e poi prese a cantare

    Lamps gleamed within his house, and white was the bedding;
    in the bright honey-moon Badger-folk came treading,
    danced down under Hill, and Old Man Willow
    tapped, tapped at window-pane, as they slept on the pillow,
    on the bank in the reeds River-woman sighing
    heard old Barrow-wight in his mound crying.
    …
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    Tom ebbe un matrimonio davvero assai gioioso

    Old Tom Bombadil had a merry wedding,
    crowned all with buttercups, hat and feather shedding;
    his bride with forgetmenots and flag-lilies for garland
    was robed all in silver-green. He sang like a starling,
    hummed like a honey-bee, lilted to the fiddle,
    clasping his river-maid round her slender middle.
    …
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    Cara dol, bella dol, amor!

    Old Tom Bombadil lay upon his pillow
    sweeter than Goldberry, quieter than the Willow,
    snugger than the Badger-folk or the Barrow-dwellers;
    slept like a humming-top, snored like a bellows.
    He woke in morning-light, whistled like a starling,
    sang, ‘Come, derry-dol, merry-dol, my darling!’
    …
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