Faramir said: 'Yet there are among us still some who have dealings with the Elves when they may, and ever and anon one will go in secret to
Lórien, seldom to return. Not I. For I deem in perilous now for mortal man wilfully to seek out the Elder People. Yet I envy you that have spoken with
the White Lady.'
'The
Lady of Lórien! Galadriel!' cried Sam. 'You should see her, indeed you should, sir. I am only a
hobbit, and gardening's my job at home, sir, and I'm not much good at poetry - not at making it: a bit of a comic rhyme, perhaps, now and again, you know, but not real poetry - so I can't tell you what I mean. It ought to be sung. You'd have to get
Strider,
Aragorn that is, or old Mr.
Bilbo, for that. But I wish I could make a song about her. Beautiful she is, sir! Lovely! Sometimes like a great tree in flower, sometimes like a white daffadowndilly, small and slender like. Hard as di'monds, soft as moonlight. Warm as sunlight, cold as frost in the stars. Proud and far-off as a snow-mountain, and as
merry as any lass with daisies in her hair in springtime. But that's a lot o' nonsense, and all wide of my mark.'