Free House of the Wolfings: The William Morris Book that Inspired J. R. R. Tolkiena *s The Lord of the Rings by Michael W. Perry

wild-wood creature, and my
presence scared them nought;
    And I fell to know of wisdom, and within me
stirred my thought,
    So that oft anights would I wander through
the mead and far away,
    And swim the Mirkwood-water, and amidst his
eddies play
    When earth was dark in the dawn-tide; and
over all the folk
    I knew of the beasts’ desires, as though in
words they spoke.

    So I saw of things that should be, were they
mighty things or small,
    And upon a day as it happened came the
war-word to the hall,
    And the House must wend to the warfield, and
as they sang, and played
    With the strings of the harp that even, and
the mirth of the war-eve made,
    Came the sight of the field to my eyes, and
the words waxed hot in me,
    And I needs must show the picture of the end
of the fight to be.
    Then I showed them the Red Wolf bristling
o’er the broken fleeing foe;
    And the war-gear of the fleers, and their
banner did I show,
    To wit the Ling-worm’s image with the maiden
in his mouth;
    There I saw my foster-father ’mid the pale
blades of the South,
    Till aloof swept all the handplay and the
hurry of the chase,
    And he lay along by an ash-tree, no helm
about his face,
    No byrny on his body; and an arrow in his
thigh,
    And a broken spear in his shoulder. Then I
saw myself draw nigh
    To sing the song blood-staying. Then saw I
how we twain
    Went ’midst of the host triumphant in the
Wolfings’ banner-wain,
    The black bulls lowing before us athwart the
warriors’ song,
    As up from Mirkwood-water we went our ways
along
    To the Great Roof of the Wolfings, whence
streamed the women out
    And the sound of their rejoicing blent with
the warriors’ shout.

    They heard me and saw the picture, and they
wotted how wise I was grown,
    And they loved me, and glad were their
hearts at the tale my lips had shown;
    And my body clad as an image of a God to the
field they bore,
    And I held by the mast of the banner as I
looked upon their war,
    And endured to see unblenching on the
wind-swept sunny plain
    All the picture of my vision by the menfolk
done again.
    And over my Foster-father I sang the
staunching-song,
    Till the life-blood that was ebbing flowed
back to his heart the strong,
    And we wended back in the war-wain ’midst
the gleanings of the fight
    Unto the ancient dwelling and the Hall-Sun’s
glimmering light.

    So from that day henceforward folk hung upon
my words,
    For the battle of the autumn, and the
harvest of the swords;
    And e’en more was I loved than
aforetime.
    So wore a year away, And heavy was the
burden of the lore that on me lay.

    But my fosterer the Hall-Sun took sick at
the birth of the year,
    And changed her life as the year changed, as
summer drew anear.
    But she knew that her life was waning, and
lying in her bed
    She taught me the lore of the Hall-Sun, and
every word to be said
    At the trimming in the midnight and the
feeding in the morn,
    And she laid her hands upon me ere unto the
howe she was borne
    With the kindred gathered about us; and they
wotted her weird and her will,
    And hailed me for the Hall-Sun when at last
she lay there still.
    And they did on me the garment, the holy
cloth of old,
    And the neck-chain wrought for the goddess,
and the rings of the hallowed gold.
    So here am I abiding, and of things to be I
tell,
    Yet know not what shall befall me nor why
with the Wolfings I dwell.

    Then said the carline:

    What seest thou, O daughter, of the journey
of to-day?
    And why wendest thou not with the war-host
on the battle-echoing way?

    Said the Hall-Sun.

    O mother, here dwelleth the Hall-Sun while
the kin hath a dwelling-place,
    Nor ever again shall I look on the onset or
the chase,
    Till the day when the Roof of the Wolfings
looketh down on the girdle of foes,
    And the arrow singeth over the grass of the
kindred’s close;
    Till the pillars shake with the shouting and
quivers the roof-tree dear,
    When the Hall of the Wolfings garners the
harvest of the spear.

    Therewith she stood on her feet and turned
her