There is a paragraph from Hannah Hurnard's book, Hind's Feet on High Places, which has always reminded me of the Grey Havens, and the emotions I feel when hearing the song Into the West. I then thought later of a heart-wrenching story of Bilbo visiting the Grey Havens. Though this story does not convey all the feeling I wished it too, it is an attempt. The fourth paragraph is the very paragraph of which I spoke, and is therefore not mine. None of this is, except the idea.
Bilbo was more than ready to arrive home at his beloved Bag End. With his journey behind him, as well as the sorrowful memories, all he wanted was peace and quiet for the rest of his days. The Shire waited invitingly just ahead, the one fixed anchor in a changing world. However, as he drew closer, an inexplicable and insatiable desire to visit the Tower Downs seized him so viciously that he couldn't resist, though he tried. Finally, as the impulse would not fade, he reluctantly bypassed his native country, and though he knew it meant reaching his hole a day later than anticipated, he felt compelled to make this detour.
Bilbo traveled for just over three hours before he reached his newly-intended destination. Having met with new ideas and foreign customs, he was not shocked at the Elvish atmosphere of the place, as he would have been before his adventure. It did not, however, please him, as it would have in the midst of his adventure. The end of his journey now permeated the entire adventure, pleasant episodes included.
He climbed the nearest tower, and looked out across the Sea. All the memoirs and emotions from the past year washed over him, and he wept unashamedly for all he had lost: For Thorin, for Fili and Kili, for his innocence, and for all that was now beyond his grasp. He wept long, but finally he wiped his eyes and looked up.
He caught sight of the sun shining on the wings of the wheeling sea-gulls, making them gleam as dazzlingly white as the snow on the peaks of the far-off High Places. Even their wild, mournful cries and the moanings of the water stirred in him a sorrow which was strangely beautiful. He had the feeling that somehow, in the very far-off places, perhaps even in far-off ages, there would be a meaning found to all sorrow and an answer too fair and wonderful to be as yet understood.
A longing, deeper than any he had ever felt before swept over him to cross the Sea to the Undying Lands. He longed for eternal peace from his inner turmoil. He longed for restoration to his former oblivion to all the workings of the world. He longed for hope that all was not as dark as it then seemed. He knew in his mind it was impossible, that only Elves crossed the Sea, but he could not drive off the yearning.
Gradually, though, pictures of the Shire and Bag End flashed across his mind. Memories from childhood, pleasant memories, reawakened his love of the world. The longing remained, but it lessened. He knew it would always be with him, and would grow stronger as he grew, but his time had not yet come. He climbed down from the tower after a last glance at the Sea, that source of his newfound longing, and began his ride home.