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When evening in the Shire was grey

his footsteps on the Hill were heard;

before the dawn he went away

on journey long without a word.



From Wilderland to Western shore,

from northern waste to southern hill,

through dragon-lair and hidden door

and darling woods he walked at will.



With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves and Men,

with mortal and immortal folk,

with bird on bough and beast in den,

in their own secret tongues he spoke.



A deadly sword, a healing hand,

a back that bent beneath its load;

a trumpet-voice, a burning brand,

a weary pilgrim on the road.



A lord of wisdom throned he sat,

swift in anger, quick to laugh;

an old man in a battered hat

who leaned upon a thorny staff.



He stood upon the bridge alone

and Fire and Shadow both defied;

his staff was broken on the stone,

in Khazad-dum his wisdom died.

COMMENTS

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Sinora
18:34 Aug 13 2008

Hoorah for the Shires lol

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POST COMMENT

Farewell we call to hearth and hall!

Though wind may blow and rain may fall,

We must away ere break of day

Far over wood and mountain tall.

To Rivendell, where Elves yet dwell

In glades beneath the misty fell,

Through moore and waste we ride in haste,

And whither then we cannot tell.



With foes ahead, behind us dread,

Beneath the sky shall be our bed,

Until at last our toil be passed,

Our journey done, our errand sped.



We must away! We must away!

We ride before the break of day!

The world was young, the mountains green,

No stain yet on the Moon was seen,

No words were laid on stream or stone

When Durin woke and walked alone.

He named the nameless hills and dells;

He drank from yet untasted wells;

He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,

And saw a crown of stars appear,

As gems upon a silver thread,

Above the shadow of his head.



The world was fair, the mountains tall,

In Elder Days before the fall

Of mighty kings in Nargothrond

And Gondolin, who now beyond

The Western Seas have passed away:

The world was fair in Durin's Day.



A king he was on carven throne

In many-pillared halls of stone

With golden roof and silver floor,

And runes of power upon the door.

The light of sun and star and moon

In shining lamps of crystal hewn

Undimmed by cloud or shade of night

There shone for ever fair and bright.



There hammer on the anvil smote,

There chisel clove, and graver wrote;

There forged was blade, and bound was hilt;

The delver mined, the mason built.

There beryl, pearl, and opal pale,

And metal wrought like fishes' mail,

Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,

And shining spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;

Beneath the mountains music woke:

The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,

And at the gates the trumpets rang.



The world is grey, the mountains old,

The forge's fire is ashen-cold;

No harp is wrung, no hammer falls;

The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;



The shadow lies upon his tomb

In Moria, in Khazad-dum.

But still the sunken stars appear

In dark and windless Mirrormere;

There lies his crown in water deep,

Till Durin wakes again from sleep.

An Elven-maid there was of old,

A shining star by day:

Her mantle white was hemmed with gold,

Her shoes of silver-grey.

A star was bound upon her brows,

A light was on her hair

As sun upon the golden boughs

In Lorien the fair.



Her hair was long, her limbs were white,

And fair she was and free;

And in the wind she went as light

As leaf of linden-tree.



Beside the falls of Nimrodel,

By water clear and cool,

Her voice as falling silver fell

Into the shining pool.



Where now she wanders none can tell,

In sunlight or in shade;

For lost of yore was Nimrodel

And in the mountains strayed.



The elven-ship in haven grey

Beneath the mountain-lee

Awaited her for many a day

Beside the roaring sea.



A wind by night in Northern lands

Arose, and loud it cried,

And drove the ship from elven-strands

Across the streaming tide.

When dawn came dim the land was lost,

The mountains sinking grey

Beyond the heaving waves that tossed

Their plumes of blinding spray.

Amroth beheld the fading shore

Now low beyond the swell,

And cursed the faithless ship that bore

Him far from Nimrodel.



Of old he was an Elven-king,

A lord of tree and glen,

When golden were the boughs in spring

In fair Lothlorien.



From helm to sea they saw him leap,

As arrow from the string,

And dive into the water deep,

As mew upon the wing.



The wind was in his flowing hair,

The foam about him shone;

Afar they saw him strong and fair

Go riding like a swan.



But from the West has come no word,

And on the Hither Shore

No tidings Elven-folk have heard

Of Amroth evermore.