That would have been the proper title for this sonnet, except that the words "Birthday Present" have a particular connotation in Middle-earth which I would avoid.
Bronze are the hammers Longbeards use, lest sparks
Of iron fire the deep cavernous air,
And when Tarannon built his hundred barks
Bronze were their nails, immune to ocean's wear.
Nine lustrous copper, one part gentle tin,
Yet imperfections only strengthen it
And age can touch bronze not. It hides the sin
'Neath veils; antiquity not age there writ.
Why beat this brassy ore in forges cold
With mallets? Breath well placed
Will melt it hot and liquid, filling mould
Of mortal clay, immortal flame embraced.
No elf-mail mine, which links of mithril join
About the breast. For my heart, bronze is coin.