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 alone.
He named the nameless hills and dells,
He drank from yet untasted wells,
He stooped 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 fall.
Of mighty kings in Nargothrond
And Gondolin, who now beyond,
The western shores have passed away.
The world was fair in Durin's day.
As king he was on carven throne,
In many pillared halls of stone.
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power upon the door.
The shinning lamp of crystal hewn,
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night,
There shone forever 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.
Buckle and corselet, axe and sword,
And shinning spear were laid in hoard.
Unwearied then where Durin's folk,
Beneath the mountains music woke.
The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.
The world is gray, the mountains old.
The forgers' fire is ashen cold,
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls.
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls.
The shadow lies upon his tomb,
In Moria, in Khazad-Dum.
But still the sunken stars appear,
In dark and windless Mirrormere,
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
--- J.R.R. Tolkien (The Fellowship of the Ring)