Not Yet Time
It is not the time yet: that seems the thought of Círdan's life.
Sometimes the Shipwright would think Time had forgotten him, once and kept forgetting. Sometimes he would seem too quick for Time, and sometimes kept not the pace with It, Time getting a mile ahead of him. Sometimes he would fail to be on time like when he stood on Belegaer's shore and stared miserably at the fleeing light of Eressëa, driven westwards by Ulmo's might. Sometimes he would also think Time reaches him with a delay like only an echo of waves' songs or seagulls' cries.
His soul yells of thirst for Aman, Círdan is patient, though, as he awaits forlornly his meeting with Time on time. As he knows again and again that it is not this day yet.
And as he stands on the wharf, alone and lonesomely, his hair silvering like cobwebs, lighted by the last rays of the setting sun, and his eyes say their farewells to the white swanship with Ring-bearers, he again repeats himself that it is not the time yet.