The King by J. R. R. Tolkien

The King beneath the mountains,
The King of carven stone,
The lord of silver fountains,
Shall come into his own!

His crown shall be upholden,
His harp shall be restrung,
His halls shall echo golden,
To songs of yore re-sung.

The woods shall wave on mountains,
And grass beneath the sun;
His wealth shall flow in fountains,
And the rivers golden run.

The streams shall run in gladness,
The lakes shall shine and burn,
All sorrow fail and sadness,
At the Mountain-king's return.

by J. R. R. Tolkien

Other poems by 'J. R. R. Tolkien'

Lament for Boromir

Lament for Eorl the Young

Nimrodel

O! Where Are You Going?

One Ring

One White Tree

Over the Misty Mountains Cold

Roads Go Ever On

Seasons

All That is Gold Does Not Glitter

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