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 & 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 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-dum his wisdom died.