Grave-deep the Age of dreaming dark,
Grave-cold each long and kingless year,
But Time now sends a halfling spark
Of supplication: Doom is here!

As sweeps a wilding wind of Night
Out from the Shadow, dread and dim,
Small halfling hand sets Hope alight
And Gondor calls the Rohirrim.

Ablaze the sudden beacon grows,
Pitch-fed by Gondor’s long travail;
Until the summons starward flows,
Sun-bright against the Mordor-gale.

By Shireling prince a prayer is come,
Close-gathering itself to leap
From peak to peak straight as a plumb,
Enkindling each mountain-seat.

And in the Golden Hall they hear
The tale the crags of Rohan sing;
The beacon-fires are burning there
To call the once and future King.