The Return of the King (The Lord of the Rings, #3)

by J.R.R. Tolkien

We heard of the horns in the hills ringing, the swords shining in the South-kingdom. Steeds went striding to the Stoningland as wind in the morning. War was kindled. There Théoden fell, Thengling mighty, to his golden halls and green pastures in the Northern fields never returning, high lord of the host. Harding and Guthláf, Dúnhere and Déorwine, doughty Grimbold, Herefara and Herubrand, Horn and Fastred, fought and fell there in a far country: in the Mounds of Mundburg under mould they lie with their league-fellows, lords of Gondor. Neither Hirluin the Fair to the hills by the sea, nor Forlong the old to the flowering vales ever, to Arnach, to his own country returned in triumph; nor the tall bowmen, Derufin and Duilin, to their dark waters, meres of Morthond under mountain-shadows. Death in the morning and at day’s ending lords took and lowly. Long now they sleep under grass in Gondor by the Great River. Grey now as tears, gleaming silver, red then it rolled, roaring water: foam dyed with blood flamed at sunset; as beacons mountains burned at evening; red fell the dew in Rammas Echor.