Gandalf the White

 

“Oh – yes. I once was called Gandalf the Grey.”
The white-garbed wizard softly spoke to say.
Fallen had Gimli’s axe onto the ground,
As Estel’s blade blazed brilliantly around
While Legolas bent back his bow with joy
To shoot an arrow, which he did deploy
Straight upwards, which then burst in dazzling flame
While the elf-prince shouted aloud the name:
“Mithrandir!” For the wizard’s robe burned white
Long moments before fading in their sight
Till all its brilliance paled and did fade
Hiding its aweful power. In the glade
Gandalf now spoke again. “Well met!” said he.
“For I am white. So you thought me to be
White Saruman. So I am, in a way:
Or what he should have become. Well, I say,
Small blame to you! No harm done. Weaponry
Like those you wield can do no hurt to me
Who has come back from water, death and flame
To Middle Earth. Yes, Gandalf was my name –
And you may use it still.”
The three friends saw
Their old companion with a kind of awe
Mixed up with joy. Their questions tumbled out
And Gandalf laughed and sat, as round about
His friends drew near.
“Be merry! Once again
We meet on Middle Earth as living men.
The storm approaches which we must abide –
And yet I feel the turnings of the tide!
So many things forgotten I have learned,
As I forgot what once I’d fairly earned
And thought I knew. So then, it would be well
And best you three to me your tidings tell.
There is so little time, yet much to do.”
And so they told him everything they knew
And Gandalf listened closely to each word.
Then having all their tale and story heard
The spoke some more. Arising, then the four
Made haste to seek out the impending war.

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