|
From Wilderland to Western shore, |
|
Form northern waste to southern hill |
|
Through dragon-lair and hidden door |
|
And darkling woods he walked at will. |
|
With Dwarves and Hobbits, Elves and Men, |
|
With mortal and immortal folk, |
|
With bird on bough and beast in den, |
|
In their own secret tounges he spoke. |
|
A deadly sword, a healing hand, |
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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, |
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Swift in anger, quick to laugh; |
|
An old man in a battered hat |
|
Who leaned upon a thorny staff. |
|
With Dwarves and Hobbits, Elves and Men, |
|
With mortal and immortal folk, |
|
With bird on bough and beast in den, |
|
In their own secret tounges he spoke. |
|
From Wilderland to Western shore, |
|
Form northern waste to southern hill |
|
Through dragon-lair and hidden door |
|
And darkling woods he walked at will. |
