It isn’t gold or the One Ring.
I doubt it has value at all.
I found it downtown in an Irish store,
in a bin of jewelry marked down.
I combed through the jumble to find it.
It slips on my finger just so.
On the face of the band,
there are holding two hands
with a heart in between them on top.
The band’s made of silver,
the hands are of gold.
I love it now, I’ll love it till old
am I, and every day,
it will crown my finger
and with me will stay.
The little adornment, I do not begrudge
how it slips on my finger, a gem and a mark
of a beauty that goes beyond mere appeal
of the ring with the hands
and the light golden seal.
A ring like all that have been smithed
to lie on the finger of those who have lived
from time before time, when rich was the scene
and gold rings were given by king and by queen.
When the art of the smith was prized above all,
from the field of the battle to the golden mead hall,
to tame the earth and all its resources,
to mark the paths and also the courses
of the purpose we call our own,
and also divine: so hammered in metal,
a thin golden line.
Of all things of beauty, the ring I see best,
being of circular, unending glory:
from any one spot on the circle, the knot
carries forth all the full story.
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