When evening in the Shire was grey
His footsteps first were heard
Before the dawn he journeyed out again
Without a word

And from Wilderland to Western shore
From north to southern hill
Through dragon-lair and hidden door
Through the dark he walked at will

With Dwarf and Hobbit, Elves and Men
With high and common folk
With bird on bough and beast in den
In secret tongues he spoke

With a deadly sword, a healing hand
A back that bore his load
A trumpet-voice, a burning brand
Grey pilgrim on the road

A lord of wisdom, he was
Swift in anger, quick to laugh
An old man in battered hat
Leaned on a thorny staff

And he stood upon the bridge
And Fire and Shadow both defied
When his staff was broken on the stone
In Khazad-dûm his wisdom died