Down Dimrill Stair, through woods of weeping gold,
Near Mirrormere, by surging Anduin's side;
By eldritch moonlight shimmering on soaring Misty peaks,
Or the waning light of an ailing sun, in Mordor,
Where the shadows lie. Through Moria in
Doom-wrought-dark where Durin's sorrow rots;
To the shrill clamour of War, where fair Princes quail from
Nazgûls' wails and a banner bloodied by a scarlet Eye.
Comes Pilgrim Grey - alone, begrimed, and bent,
With knuckled staff, unannounced, fortuitously sent;
Harsh and fey his ardent glare, keen his sheening sword,
Monumental Sorcerer, wise Sage to King and Lord;
Flame to spiteful darkness, Friend to Elf and Shire,
All Hail! Gandalf! Wielder of the Secret Fire!