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 along.
He named the nameless hills and dales;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stopped 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
Of mighty kings in
And Gondolin, who now
The Western Seas have passed away.
The world was fair in Durin's Day.
A king he was on carven
In many-pillared halls of
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The light of sun and star and
In shining lamps of crystal
Undimmed by cloud or shade of
There shown 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 mountain 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
In Moria, in Khazad-dum.
But still the sunken stars
In dark and windless Mirrormere;
There lies his crown in water deep.
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
