Pohyola’s fair and winsome daughter, Glory of the land and water, Sat upon the bow of heaven, On its highest arch resplendent, In a gown of richest fabric, In a gold and silver air-gown, Weaving webs of golden texture, Interlacing threads of silver; Weaving with a golden shuttle, With a weaving-comb of silver; Merrily flies the golden shuttle, From the maiden’s nimble fingers, Briskly swings the lathe in weaving, Swiftly flies the comb of silver, From the sky-born maiden’s fingers, Weaving webs of wondrous beauty.
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.
– JRR Tolkien
Sing hey! for the bath at close of day
that washes the weary mud away!
A loon is he that will not sing:
O! Water Hot is a noble thing!