The dwarves of Rhûn were stoutly striking iron hard
Upon their anvils, bellows blowing, blows which jarred
The arms to twist and turn the metal in the fire –
Red hot – it obeyed the dwarven smith’s desire.
Unease tugged at the man-heart of Dundolin
High-manned he the watch-tower, and stood therein.
He scanned with eyes now weary from the ending watch
Relief was near. And looking round he saw a patch
Of scant autumnal colours wave their raggéd leaves
Upon the hills. Just so do lazy summer seas
Swell gently with the fluctuations of the tide.
And soon the wintry blasts will strike the mountainside
Throw snowy blankets deep around to put to sleep
The growths surrounding everywhere the dwarven keep.
Dundolin was the nephew-born to Unwin, King
Of Dwarvish folk in Rhûn. King Unwin sought to bring
Dundolin up as heir – for he had took no wife
View original post 597 more words