Standing Before Bag End
by Talisha Hibdon

Author note: I woke up this morning way before I was supposed to with a poem in my heart. I sprinted to the computer as fast as I could, repeating phrases and ideas that my dreams had created. This is that poem. If you've ever thought about what Bag End would be like, you'll like this poem. Bag End belongs wholly to Frodo Baggins and J.R.R. Tolkien. I welcome all feedback. Seriously, review review!

I stood before the great hobbit hole
And I was drawn to it's front gate.
The finer burrow there never was
In the Shire thus far to date.
How straight and proud the white gate stood round,
How polished was the painted green door,
And bright the knob in sun did shone,
Unworn from countless turnings before.

And I wondered, standing before Bag End,
Just why I could not turn it too?

I stood before the great hobbit hole
And was drawn to it's flowers and greens.
The finer garden there never was
In the Shire that's yet to be seen.
What joys even the walkways must hold
And the memories the trees did share.
How fine to walk through color and love
And hear songs of the gardener's care.

And I wondered, standing before Bag End,
Just why I could not be cared for too?

I stood before the great hobbit hole
And was drawn to it's rounded front door.
The finer front porch there never was,
In the Shire and all of it's lore.
Grand it would feel to pass through the gate
And to stand on the wide porch inside,
To be within as the door closed to
Because I would in this home abide.

And I wondered, standing before Bag End,
Just why I could not then come home too?

I stood before the great hobbit hole
And was drawn to it's circled window.
The finer view out there never was
In the Shire for someone to show.
What secrets those many rooms must hold,
Filled with outlandish books to leaf through.
What tales the many walls would have told,
And what strange folk they often did knew.

And I wondered, standing before Bag End,
Just why I can't be one of them too?

I stood before the great hobbit hole
And was drawn to the warmth it transmit.
The finer green Hill there never was,
In the Shire or beyond it.
How favored fortunate few had been,
To be welcomed in by its Master.
To sit beside the fire with him
And talk long of things that are and were.

And I wondered, standing before Bag End,
Why I can't be on the inside too?