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
darkling woods he walked at will.
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 his 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-dûm his wisdom died. The finest rockets ever seen:
they burst in stars of blue and green,
or after thunder golden showers
came falling like a rain of flowers.