Mine is the Song of Durin.

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 names the nameless hills and dells;
He drank from yet untasted wells;
He stooped and looked in Mirromere,
And saw a crown of stars appear,
As gems upon a silver thread,
Abouve 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 Seas have passed away:
The word was fair in Durin's Day.

A king he was on carven throne
In many-pillared halls of stone
With golden roof and silver floor,
And runes of power on the door.
The light of the sun and star and moon
In shining lamps of crystal hewn
Undimmed by cloud or shade of night
There shone for even fair and bright.

The 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,
Buckler and corslet, axe and sword,
And shinning spears were laid in hoard.

Unwearied then were Durin's folk;
Beneath the mountains music woke:
The harpers harped, the minstrels sand,
And at the gates the trumpets rang.

The world is grey, the mountains old,
The forge's fire is ashen-cold;
No harp is wrung, no hammer falls:
The darkness dwells in Durin's halls;
The shadow lies upon hid tomb
In Moria, in Khazad-dum.
But still the sunken stars appear
In dark and windless Mirromere;
There lies his crown in water deep,
Till Durin wakes again from sleep.