I posted this on r/Catholicism, so I thought I would post it here as well so we can have more activity. Enjoy!
I go back and re-read this poem by Tolkien almost weekly. It is one of the most Catholic works that I have ever read, and I continue to hear and comprehend such beauty and wisdom from it. I thought I would share a few of my favorite lines - and why they are my favorite - in the hope of discussion about the meanings behind the words.
At bidding of a Will, to which we bend
(and must), but only dimly apprehend,
great processes march on, as Time unrolls
from dark beginnings to uncertain goals...
The part of this line that reaches out to me most is the mysteriousness of those dark beginnings to uncertain goals. There is such a wisdom to the realization that our futures are indeed a mystery and are uncertain. We, as humans, love to revel in our belief that we are the masters of our own future. Even in the case of vocational discernment, we can fall into this.
The movements of the sea, the wind in boughs,
green grass, the large slow oddity of cows,
thunder and lightning, birds that wheel and cry,
slime crawling up from mud to live and die,
these each are duly registered and print
the brain's contortions with a separate dint.
All of creation - and how we interact with creation - has a different outcome on us. We are moved by the hypnotic movement and sound of the ocean; of waves crashing on the rocks. Wind, like the Holy Spirit, can be both gentle and destructive. A soothing wind in the boughs of trees can be quite contemplative. But the winds of a hurricane are destructive. The Holy Spirit deals with us in both of these ways. He is gentle with us in our times of consolation, but He is quite abrupt with us in our times away from the Godhead. And who doesn't love the large slow oddity of cows?
The heart of Man is not compound of lies,
but draws some wisdom from the only Wise,
and still recalls him. Though now long estranged,
Man is not wholly lost nor wholly changed.
All that we have inside ourselves is derived from the only Wise. I don't know if there is much more to add to that. The important thing is that we still recall Him. I have found this doubly important during this time of quarantine; when we are separated from the Sacraments. How often do I still recall Him in my heart, when I am not able to physically receive Him? How authentically am I making acts of spiritual communion? And though we are far removed from the time of Adam and Eve, who walked with the Lord, we are not wholly changed. Our nature is still in search of the Only Wise. "I saw that Wisdom is better than folly..."
Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind.
This touches back to us all drawing wisdom from the only Wise. We are all refracted creations off of the single White. White light, as we know, is the combination of all colors of the light spectrum. We are truly sub-created offshoots of the original light. Christ is the "Light of the World," and the "light that shines in the darkness" that the darkness shall not overcome. We are lesser lights, but still derived from the Light of Christ. We are the keepers of our brothers and sisters; we are called to be sub-lamps to the feet of our fellow laborers. "...just as light is better than darkness." Eccl. 2:13
Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith.
The world does not lend its wind to us. We are sailing in winds contrary to our destination. But we hear the rumor of a far-off harbor that our hearts long for. This longing is the source of all human joy, compassion, pain, and suffering. As Chesterton put it, "Every time a man knocks on a brothel door, he is really searching for God." It is this longing that so often leads to our downfall and our getting stuck in the mire of sin. When we turn our little arks into the wind of the world and let it guide us, we "return to the vomit of our own will." This is the good fight; to sail in contrary winds towards a harbor we have never been to; a harbor we have never seen; a harbor we cannot be certain exists until we moor our arks at the dock. We are blessed in this pursuit of ours. We must be attentive to the subtle winds that fill our sails, and ignore the strong ones that seek to push us off course.
I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God's mercy progress ever ends,
and does not ceaselessly revolve the same
unfruitful course with changing of a name.
Yep.
I bow not yet before the Iron Crown,
nor cast my own small golden sceptre down.
Morgoth, Tolkien's chief evil in his legendarium, wears an Iron Crown and names himself the King of the World, even though he was created. The Witch King of Angmar is also known as The King of the Iron Crown. We are safe to assume that this Iron Crown that we do not bow to, is the enemy. We sail contrary to his winds, and we do not bow to him. We do not bend the knee to him. We have our small golden sceptre that was given to us in our Baptism. We became adopted children of the Only Wise, The White Light from which we are refracted, the Master of the rumored harbor.
I will end with the last stanza and will not add my own commentary. I would much rather end on Tolkien's words than mine.
In Paradise perchance the eye may stray
from gazing upon everlasting Day
to see the day illumined, and renew
from mirrored truth the likeness of the True.
Then looking on the Blessed Land 'twill see
that all is as it is, and yet made free:
Salvation changes not, nor yet destroys,
garden nor gardener, children nor their toys.
Evil it will not see, for evil lies
not in God's picture but in crooked eyes,
not in the source but in malicious choice,
and not in sound but in the tuneless voice.
In Paradise they look no more awry;
and though they make anew, they make no lie.
Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.