In Imladris, A Broken Sword
Written for English class, actually, but never submitted.
He walks in sleep; many times at night
Does he turn 'twixt pillars, pace the floor,
And mutter soft words; haunted eyes
Rove white halls, high tow'rs,
Searching, hunting, ever-seeking
Caught in webs of dreams.
Night-walker, poet, quiet dreamer,
Younger-son, reluctant; lordly-Faramir.
Too slow, perchance, to war and anger;
For all that, yet a worthy man.
He walks, 'neath the blue-black night,
Thinking- dreams haunt him now,
Light in the West, a hand that heals,
Voice afar-off cries
In Imladris, a broken sword,
And counsels good and wise.
Legends, halflings forth shall stand
And change the world -
Then Boromir wakes.
Tousled-hair, sleepy-eyed, yet
Quietly concerned - 'What, Faramir!
Not abed, at this hour? For is't not
Unwholesome to wander, when art not
Yet well? But withal, art troubled.'
Faramir speaks: he is troubled indeed,
Yet will not tell all - for afraid is he
That his brother, scorning poets and
Petty fancies, the like of which Faramir's seen often,
Will mock, and dismiss, and cry 'Faugh!'
But when he tells, and asks what to do -
Boromir is silent - for he has dreamt too.