A Quote by J. R. R. Tolkien

And he smote the Balrog upon the mountainside. — © J. R. R. Tolkien
And he smote the Balrog upon the mountainside.
Love took up the harp of Life, and smote on all the chords with might; Smote the chord of Self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight.
Cold autumn, wan with wrath of wind and rain, Saw pass a soul sweet as the sovereign tune That death smote silent when he smote again.
Who knows the flower best? - the one who reads about it in a book, or the one who finds it wild on the mountainside?
There was a sound in the background like a distant sheep coughing gently on a mountainside. Jeeves sailing into action.
I threw down my enemy, and he fell from the high place and broke the mountain-side where he smote it in his ruin.
It is a thousand times more sensible to climb one foot up the mountainside than to chatter for years about the mountaintop.
Now from the smooth deep ocean-stream the sun Began to climb the heavens, and with new rays Smote the surrounding fields.
In winter, when the dismal rain Comes down in slanting lines, And Wind, that grand old harper, smote His thunder-harp of pines.
Frazzled and delirious, as I've just finished a new book of stories. I feel like Moses staggering down the mountainside with the tablets of stone.
I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking; so full of valor that they smote the air, for breathing in their faces, beat the ground for kissing of their feet.
It smote me to the heart that I had found no one in all the world who loved me more than all others.
Reptilian green the wrinkled throat, Green as a bough of yew the beard; He bent his head, and so I smote
Land where my fathers died, Land of the pilgrims' pride, From every mountainside Let freedom ring!
Historical change is like an avalanche. The starting point is a snow-covered mountainside that looks solid. All changes take place under the surface and are rather invisible.
Hope is a path on the mountainside. At first there is no path. But then there are people passing that way. And there is a path.
The rain to the wind said, You push and I'll pelt.' They so smote the garden bed That the flowers actually knelt, And lay lodged--though not dead. I know how the flowers felt.
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