— It’s talking, Merry. The tree is talking!
— Tree?! I am no tree. I am an Ent.
— A treeherder! A shepherd of the forest!
— Don’t talk to it, Merry. Don’t encourage it.
— Treebeard, some call me.
— And whose side are you on?
— Side? I am on nobody’s side... because nobody’s on my side, little Orc. Nobody cares for the woods anymore.
When Winter comes, the winter wild that hill and wood shall slay;
When trees shall fall and starless night devour the sunless day;
When wind is in the deadly East, then in the bitter rain
I'll look for thee, and call to thee; I'll come to thee again!
<...>
Together we will take the road that leads into the West,
And far away will find a land where both our hearts may rest.
'Of course, it is likely enough, my friends,' he [Treebeard] said slowly, 'likely enough that we are going to our doom: the last march of the Ents. But if we stayed at home and did nothing, doom would find us anyway, sooner or later. That thought has long been growing in our hearts; and that is why we are marching now. It was not a hasty resolve. Now at least the last march of the Ents may be worth a song. Aye,' he sighed, 'we may help the other peoples before we pass away. Still, I should have liked to see the songs come true about the Entwives. I should dearly have liked to see Fimbrethil again. But there, my friends, songs like trees bear fruit only in their own time and their own way: and sometimes they are withered untimely.'
