goldberry - Racconti di Tolkien

Lamps gleamed within his house, and white was the bedding;

in the bright honey-moon Badger-folk came treading,

danced down under Hill, and Old Man Willow

tapped, tapped at window-pane, as they slept on the pillow,

on the bank in the reeds River-woman sighing

heard old Barrow-wight in his mound crying.

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Old Tom Bombadil had a merry wedding,

crowned all with buttercups, hat and feather shedding;

his bride with forgetmenots and flag-lilies for garland

was robed all in silver-green. He sang like a starling,

hummed like a honey-bee, lilted to the fiddle,

clasping his river-maid round her slender middle.

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Wise old Bombadil, he was a wary fellow;

bright blue his jacket was, and his boots were yellow.

None ever caught old Tom in upland or in dingle,

walking the forest-paths, or by the Withywindle,

or out on the lily-pools in boat upon the water.

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Old Tom Bombadil lay upon his pillow

sweeter than Goldberry, quieter than the Willow,

snugger than the Badger-folk or the Barrow-dwellers;

slept like a humming-top, snored like a bellows.

He woke in morning-light, whistled like a starling,

sang, ‘Come, derry-dol, merry-dol, my darling!’

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‘Go out! Shut the door, and never come back after!

Take away gleaming eyes, take your hollow laughter!

Go back to grassy mound, on your stony pillow

lay down your bony head, like Old Man Willow,

like young Goldberry, and Badger-folk in burrow!

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‘Now, old Badger-brock, do you hear me talking?

You show me out at once! I must be a-walking.

Show me to your backdoor under briar-roses;

then clean grimy paws, wipe your earthy noses!

Go back to sleep again on your straw pillow,

like fair Goldberry and Old Man Willow!’

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Su una sedia all’altra estremità della stanza sedeva una donna. La lunga chioma bionda le scendeva sulle spalle; la sua veste era verde, del verde dei giovani germogli, tempestata di argentee perle di rugiada; e la cintura d’oro pareva una catena di gigli incastonata di non-ti-scordar-di-me.

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‘Ha, Tom Bombadil! What be you a-thinking,

peeping inside my tree, watching me a-drinking

deep in my wooden house, tickling me with feather,

dripping wet down my face like a rainy weather?’

‘You let me out again, Old Man Willow!

I am stiff lying here; they’re no sort of pillow,

your hard crooked roots.

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Back to her mother’s house in the deepest hollow

swam young Goldberry. But Tom, he would not follow;

on knotted willow-roots he sat in sunny weather,

drying his yellow boots and his draggled feather.

Up woke Willow-man, began upon his singing,

sang Tom fast asleep under branches swinging;

in a crack caught him tight: snick!

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There his beard dangled long down into the water:

up came Goldberry, the River-woman’s daughter;

pulled Tom’s hanging hair. In he went a-wallowing

under the water-lilies, bubbling and a-swallowing.

‘Hey, Tom Bombadil! Whither are you going?’

said fair Goldberry. ‘Bubbles you are blowing,

frightening the finny fish and the brown water-rat,

startling the dabchicks, and drowning your feather-hat!’

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