Around the corner I have a friend,In this great city that has no end,Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,And before I know it, a year is gone.
And I never see my old friends face,For life is a swift and terrible race,He knows I like him just as well,As in the days when I rang his bell.
And he rang mine but we were younger then,And now we are tired and busy men.Tired of playing a foolish game,Tired of trying to make a name.
"Tomorrow" I say! "I will call on him"Just to show that I'm thinking of him",But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,And distance between us grows and grows.
Around the corner, yet miles away,"Here's a telegram sir," "He died today."And that's what we get and deserve in the end.Around the corner, a vanished friend.
--Charles Hanson Towne
The world was young, the mountains green,No stain yet on the Moon was seen,No words were laid on stream or stoneWhen Durin woke and walked alone.He named the nameless hills and dells;He drank from yet untasted wells;He stooped and looked in Mirrormere,And saw a crown of stars appear,As gems upon a silver thread,Above the shadow of his head.
The world was fair, the mountains tall,In Elder Days before the fallOf mighty kings in NargothrondAnd Gondolin, who now beyondThe Western Seas have passed away:The world was fair in Durin's Day.
A king he was on carven throneIn many-pillared halls of stoneWith golden roof and silver floor,And runes of power upon the door.The light of sun and star and moonIn shining lamps of crystal hewnUndimmed by cloud or shade of nightThere shone for ever fair and bright.
There 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 shining spears were laid in hoard.
Unwearied then were Durin's folk;Beneath the mountains music woke:The harpers harped, the minstrels sang,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 his tombIn Moria, in Khazad-dûm.But still the sunken stars appearIn dark and windless Mirrormere;There lies his crown in water deep,Till Durin wakes again from sleep.
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