"Alas, for the dying of the trees"

Sometimes Gimli wished he had never learned Sindarin.

True, the books on Elven crafts betrayed secrets of wondrous skills that eluded even the finest Dwarven smiths.

And the luminous Elven music melded with the meaning of the poetry like gold and mithril intertwined.

But now, favoring his gouty foot, chafing his arthritic hands against the cold, and keenly aware that his beard matched the color of the snow, he feared the penalty was again come due: Legolas was gazing sorrowfully at the leafless trees.

“Spare me, Elf,” he grumbled, “another endless lament whining about the sad passage of the years.”