Moving on in the text of the chapter in question, what follows this iconic moment is what I consider the one clunker in the chapter:
They rode off along a path that wound away from behind the house, and went slanting up towards the north end of the hill-brow under which it sheltered. They had just dismounted to lead their ponies up the last steep slope, when suddenly Frodo stopped.
"Goldberry!" he cried. "My fair lady, clad all in silver green! We have never said farewell to her, nor seen her since the evening!"
I don't mind Frodo being distressed at not having said goodbye to Goldberry, but his "My fair lady, clad all in silver green!" always strikes me as a false note. Even an "elf-friend" hobbit like Frodo would not say that like that. It is one of the most out-of-character moments in the book, and one that simply doesn't work for me, even as a way of showing how other-worldly Tom and Goldberry and their little land is. It takes me out of the story every time.
But it quickly recaptures its stride, as soon as she waves her arm and bids them to look around.
It was now as clear and far-seen as it had been veiled and misty when they stood upon the knoll in the Forest, which could now be seen rising pale and green out of the dark trees in the West. In that direction the land rose in wooded ridges, green, yellow, russet under the sun, beyond which lay hidden the valley of the Brandywine. To the South, over the line of the Withywindle, there was a distant glint like pale glass where the Brandywine River made a great loop in the lowlands and flowed away out of the knowledge of the hobbits. Northward beyond the dwindling downs the land ran away in flats and swellings of grey and green and pale earth-colours, until it faded into a featureless and shadowy distance. Eastward the Barrow-downs rose, ridge behind ridge into the morning, and vanished out of eyesight into a guess: it was no more than a guess of blue and a remote white glimmer blending with the hem of the sky, but it spoke to them, out of memory and old tales, of the high and distant mountains.
This is Tolkien at his very best. Setting the scene with descriptive language so vivid that it makes you feel like you are looking out from the top of the hill-top with our hobbit-friends. Yet setting the scene for what is to come with an air of mystery and suspense: "Eastward the Barrow-downs rose, ridge behind ridge into the morning, and vanished out of eyesight into a guess: it was no more than a guess of blue and a remote white glimmer blending with the hem of the sky, but it spoke to them, out of memory and old tales, of the high and distant mountains." Anyone who reads that sentence and tries to tell me that it wasn't written by a truly great writer is just plain crazy. Passages like this remind me of why I am able to read this book scores of times and never get tired of it.
I love how the hobbits feel so inspired by these sights, and the fresh air that surrounds them, and how Goldberry gently brings them back to (Middle-)earth, reminding them of the importance of keeping to their path. And Frodo's response to her final salutation, "Farewell, Elf-friend, it was a merry meeting!" -- which is to say, his inability to find any response at all except to bow -- is as pitch-perfect as his initial comment is off-base.
The hobbits continue along up and down hills, through a tree-less and and water-less land. They seem to be making better-than-expected progress, with a hopeful view of a line of trees that marks the road they are aiming for. But they also see a disquieting view of hills "crowned with green mounds, and on some were standing stones, pointing upwards like jagged teeth out of green gums." So they turn away from that view and stop for a rest and a meal in a hollow circle, in the midst of which there was a "single stone, standing tall under the sun above, and at this hour casting no shadow. It was shapeless and yet significant: like a landmark, or a guarding finger, or more like a warning."
And there they take a fateful nap, that they never meant to take. Once again Tolkien language is so compelling:
Riding over the hills, and eating their fill, the warm sun and the scent of turf, lying a little too long, stretching out their legs and looking at the sky above their noses: these things are, perhaps, enough to explain what happened. However, that may be: they woke suddenly and uncomfortably from a sleep they had never meant to take. The standing stone was cold, and it cast a long pale shadow that stretched eastward over them. The sun, a pale and watery yellow, was gleaming through the mist just above the west wall of the hollow in which they lay; north, south, and east, beyond the wall the fog was thick, cold and white. The air was silent, heavy and chill. Their ponies were standing crowded together with their heads down.
I love the sense of foreboding that the cold standing stone and its long pale shadow, and the mist hanging just above them, and the fog all around them. One just knows that something terrible is about to happen, something that is their own fault, and yet not not their fault, caused by their own negligent disregard of circumstances, but yet clearly already under the mysterious and foreboding influence of
something.
That should be enough to talk about for now. I did say that I wanted to look at the text of this chapter in depth.
"Spirits in the shape of hawks and eagles flew ever to and from his halls; and their eyes could see to the depths of the seas, and pierce the hidden caverns beneath the world."
(Although it wouldn't have occurred to me that you were ignoring the question, even if some time passed before you answered it!)
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