J.R.R. Tolkien's Narrative Prose in 'The Lord of the Rings,' thank you, is Perfect.

And not at all like the Book of Mormon.  The interpolated poetry of the author's own invention, is, however, alas, it must be allowed, gratingly and distractingly pedestrian.

Note: Thomas Love Peacock is the only English author I know of, really, besides Shakespeare, whose poetry, sometimes interspersed through his prose narratives, is every bit as good as the prose in which it is imbedded, and not a tiresome blemish on it--and whose prose is yet, withal, of course, perfect. Come to think of it though, Dr. Sam. Johnson also could, when put to it, write excellent verses, as well as prose you could take to the bank--and I think Congreve, and Dryden, and several of the Jacobean playwrights might have had the knack. But what is singular is how god-awful poetry can get to be before its partial, doting authors will admit its god-awfulness (and they never will): Tom Bombadil. And there's no way to tell, apparently, if one's own muse is abortive. Think, for example, of the Cardinal de Richelieu, who did everything and knew everything, and held the keys of power in Heaven and Earth, and founded the Académie Française--and was a painfully bad, amateur writer, of verse tragedies, as I recall.