Sam loves rhymes and poems of all sorts, especially Elvish ones, and while this one sounds more like a rhyme that might be taught to young hobbit-children in the Shire than anything he's ever heard from an Elf before, his eyes light up and his ears perk up all the same.

"Deathroot, to make minds frail," he repeats, his brow furrowed in concentration as he tries to commit the whole verse to memory. He'll probably make Ellana repeat it another time or two before the day is out, just to make sure he's got the whole thing down. "Well that makes more sense then. It's still not a very nice name, mind you; but then again, I suppose it's not a very nice plant, either. Even if it is useful."