Old Tom Bombadil sits sighing by the Withywindle...

‘Old’ they call him even now, but he will be older, so much older: now he is young, as young as the spring and the dawn, which is as young as it can be, since the Sun herself is only a few seasons old... how many, Tom forgets, but only a handful, no more than could be gathered into his weathered palm... he saw her rise. He saw the white Moon come up before her, and the Sun rising after, and her brilliance swimming in the brown lazy depths of the river at its deepest. He laughed his merry laugh and went away through the woods, shaking his head over the grandeur of it all, and the madness. The world may change and change again and old Tom Bombadil shall still be young, for what has he to do with any of this? Great is his heart, light is his head. He cares only for his own concerns.

All around weep the willows, bending under blackened skies. The wind wails in the woods, whips up waves from the river. Such a torrent! such a storm! How it tosses the lilies and the rushes. How it stirs the deep pools...

Goldberry will not come. She coils deep under the bank in the calmest of hollows, awaiting the passing of the storm. Then she will dart out again, then dress herself in lily-leaves and sing water-songs in the rushes, then her tresses will ripple golden, bright as sunlight streaming over pebble-beds. Then she will tease him, then she will leap up and tug at his beard, his brown hair. Then she will show her teeth and laugh.

Old Tom heaves a heavy sigh. If only, he thinks, if only she may still have his hat!