The world was young, the mountains green,nNo stain yet on the Moon was seen,nNo words were laid on stream or stone,nWhen Durin woke and walked alone.nHe named the nameless hills and dells;nHe drank from yet untasted wells;nHe stooped and looked in Mirrormere,nAnd saw a crown of stars appear,nAs gems upon a silver thread,nAbove the shadow of his head.nThe world was fair, the mountains tall,nIn Elder Days before the fallnOf mighty Kings in NargothrondnAnd Gondolin, who now beyondnThe Western Seas have passed away:nThe world was fair in Durin's Day.nnA king he was on carven thronenIn many-pillared halls of stonenWith golden roof and silver floor,nAnd runes of power upon the door.nThe light of sun and star and moonnIn shining lamps of crystal hewnnUndimmed by cloud or shade of nightnThere shown forever far and bright.nNo harp is wrung, no hammer falls:nThe darkness dwells in Durin's halls;nThe shadow lies upon his tombnIn Moria, in Khazad-dûm.nBut still the sunken stars appearnIn dark and windless Mirrormere;nThere lies his crown in water deep,nTill Durin wakes again from sleep.