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 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-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.