I have been working on this series of sonnets for many years, editing and rearranging them. In previous iterations, I presented titles spelling out who was the subject of a given sonnet and who was its speaker. I have removed these, so getting one’s bearings may take a little effort; though I think that it will be effort that will be rewarded.
I have kept the fundamental structure of the sonnets the same, with four appearing before the destruction of the ring—the eucastrophe—and three after, with this imbalance being perhaps the saddest thing in all of the Lord of the Rings.
Admittedly, these sonnets may be a bit of a heavy lift, as they may necessitate some Google searches—perhaps beginning with “eucastrophe” 
— or an awful lot of reading.
Finally, these poems may be a bit too “on the nose” for some in the connections that I make to Christianity, but teasing that out in the sufferings of the Ringbearers was one of my primary ends.
____________
My dear Smeagol. Indeed, you still are dear
To me. My son, please hear me if you may.
Turn from the dark, from things that crawl in fear
Of light into the earth. Look to the day,
Though it may hurt you for a while. Repent
Of whatever deed it is that chills your heart.
Warmth will return; the daylight is not spent.
My son, seek light again. Come take your part
Again in wholesome meals, in wholesome talk
Around the table. I will make amends
If you will but start; just begin the walk
Towards your healing. There are much worse ends,
My dear son, than to feel chastising pain.
Smeagol, repent. Come back to life again.
____________
And we all smiled to hear the Gaffer’s son
So named. Should not one born to earth and root,
Indeed, have such a name—the “half-wise” one?
Why, then, this reaching for a foreign fruit?
Why should a gard’ner ever tend to more
Than to roots of glorious taters. Thanks be
For those, for simple fruit and flow’rs. Why put store
In more, in your fancies wild and airy?
Dear, simple Samwise you of all should know—
Strange, wondrous weeds will grow from wand’ring seeds.
Lad, be planted here. Think of only how
To care for roses. Have no other need
For wizard dreams and mountains cold and Elves,
For old-fool Hobbits who forget themselves.
____________
My dear Bilbo, you know it must be so;
The burden has moved on. It came to you
For one purpose alone, for him to go,
Full-knowing of the Dark he must walk through,
To give it up into the Cracks of Doom.
For you it was a treasure far too great.
And taken once again it would consume
You from within. And even now it waits,
Subdued within these holy walls, to rise
Again and chain the neck on which it hangs,
And drag it to the dark where its lord lies.
Your task must be to wait—not hear the clang
Of swords—but help to bear the pangs of fear,
To plead the grace of Elbereth be near.
____________
My dear Frodo, I did not ever dream
To be my heir would mean so dark a road.
But adventures never come as it seems
They ought, only at our bidding. A load
Unsought will seldom await our choosing.
But with the load the Unseen Giver also gives
Graces and beauty to soothe the losing
Of homely things. So, take now as you leave
Fair mithril for without, and for within
Fair memories of sunlit days and friends,
Of glorious Elder Days, of Elves and Men
In darkness fighting for a brighter end.
Despair not, if night falls; all will be well.
Sing still, “A Elbereth Gilthoniel!”
EUCASTROPHE AT THE CRACKS OF DOOM
Dear, Samwise, you now see you are ill-named.
True wisdom ever shoots from lowly roots.
Of those who faithful stand and seek no fame,
You now belong, to taste its well-earned fruits.
Your love of tree and earth, all living things,
Of holy Elves and song and wizard tales,
Your guileless keeping of the guilty ring,
Your simple wisdom praised in Lorien’s vale,
By Lorien’s glorious Lady and her gifts,
Bring to the Shire its healing and its rest.
With rose and oak now golden Mallorn lifts
Its leaves to bless; and Elanor, gold-tressed,
Your joy begins. So, Ringbearer, through thee,
To Iluvatar may praise and glory be.
____________
Dear, faithful tenant of my homely house,
Who melds the joys of Shire and Elven-home,
The time has come. The secret power that rose
Through you was raised, ever to be cast down.
But its failing also begins the end
Of all things foul or fair wrought by the Rings
Of Power. This home I made to blend
The good of Middle Earth with holy things
Must also pass. So, Ringfinder, now come
And taste the joy for which we long have ached.
The homely joys we leave, as such, are done,
But I perceive Iluvatar shall take
Up each reflected image of His face
And make anew a joyous, homely place.
____________
Dear Elf-friend well met here under these trees
That bloom in part because of sorrow borne
By you, and of the love and toil of he
Who, gentle, bore you up, who soon will mourn
That you will not savor the fruits of joy
Which bloom in field and hearth since Elven-home
Has stretched to bless the Shire. For pain alloys
Each joy you feel vicariously alone.
But, know, your pain has brought you close to me.
You feel the holy ache we feel who knew
Undying light beyond the Sundering Seas,
And bear a restless wound till all’s made new.
You will be healed. The shoot of Melkor’s fall
Will fall and Iluvatar be all in all.
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The Dassler Effect 