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 tp Southern
Through dragon-lair and hidden door
And darkling woods he walked at will.
With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves
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 brandm
weary pilgrim on the road.
A lord of wisdom throned he sat,
Swift in anger, Quick to laugh;
An old man in a battered
Who leaned upon a thorny staff.
He stood upon the bridge alone
And fire and shadow both defied;
staff was broken on the stone,
In Khazad-Dum his wisdom died