There is still much unexplored on the forest floor,
Unseen beneath the boughs of endless trees
In darkening Dolennan, the hallowed Holtmark
When light is foregone and shadows grow stark
Upon shimmering Dûenedril and shrouded hill
And standing there at the granite Gondruist, 
A thought in my mind persists;

Twelve Lights and Twelve Ideals lay the Law of the Land come night

Note: the names used in this poem are those I've made for the Griswold Scout Reservation. They're mostly a mix of elvish Sindarin and Old English used in Lord of the Rings.

Dolennan: "Hidden Valley" (Sindar)
Holtmark: "Forest land" (Old English) Alternate name for the GSR
Dûenedril: "Midnight mirror" (Sindar)
Gondruist: "Stone hearth" (Sindar) Alternate name for the Council Ring (pictured)

Fingolfin hesitated, standing there before the immense doors that rose far above him.

Why? Why am I here? This is madness.

And it was madness, for once news came to Hithlum that Dorthonion was lost and the sons of Finarfin overthrown, and that the sons of Feanor were driven from their lands, Fingolfin jumped upon his horse and rode across Dor-nu-Fauglith alone. So crazed was he that none, Elf nor Orc, could stop him from approaching Angband. Thus, he made it across the scarred land and to the very entrance of the great fortress. And now he stood there in disbelief at the last moment. 

How could I sacrifice myself when so many died for their King, for me?

"Andy, can I hug you?"

Her request was simple enough, though a great sense of awe and pure joy filled me as we came together. Soon enough I found myself in her gentle embrace, her lustrous, shadowy hair cast about me. It was all such a wonderful twist of fate; I had been attending the Hannaford Career Center for two years and each day I was thankful for the young woman I shared a desk with. To walk in each afternoon and sit down to see that smile did much to set aside my anxiety. For months we'd illustrate art and discuss it together as friends - though it was hard for me to put into words how much more I wanted to tell her. 

I may serve no lord
Though you have my word
As true as my sword

This blade of steel
I will not wield
As weaponry
For my name is one of chivalry

 

"At what point shall we expect the approach of danger? By what means shall we fortify against it? Shall we expect some transatlantic giant to step the Ocean, and crush us at a blow? Never.
All the armies of Europe, Asia and Africa combined, with all the treasure of the earth in their military chest could not by force take a drink from the Ohio, or make a track on the Blue Ridge, in a trial of a thousand years.

At what point then is the approach of danger to be expected? I answer, if it ever reach us, it must spring up amongst us. It cannot come from abroad. If destruction be our lot, we must ourselves be its author and finisher.

As a nation of freemen, we must live through all time, or die by suicide."

~ Abraham Lincoln, January 27, 1838 

A young man appeared from under the trees. He stopped, staring before the array of wooden seats and granite ampitheater that presented itself before him. It was as grand as he had remembered; from long nights filled with laughter brought about by skits and the sound of many singing as one, their uniforms obscured in the darkness but their voices ever clear in the evening air. All the while two massive fires would burn in their pits, great torches painting the stones and hemlock with brilliant hues. So many eyes were drawn to them, gazing at the lively flames dancing across the stacked wood.

The sun rises, but not for long. The bright morning vanishes as a storm moves in over Johnson's gentle hills, draping a dark cloak upon the land. Snuffed like the wick of a candle, the last days autumn come to an abrupt end - without so much as a single leaf from the colorful months beforehand.

Sichuan, China

170,000,000 mya

Through dense forests and vast fields
Following the trail
Of those before me