There was an old king on a high throne.
His white beard lay on knees of bone.
In secret treasury in the dark ground
Its strong doors were iron bound.
The swords of his thanes were full with rust.
His glory fallen, his rule unjust.
His halls hollow and his towers cold.
But thing he was, of elvish gold.
He heard not the horns in the mountain pass.
He smelt not the blood on the trodden grass.
But his halls were burned and his kingdom lost.
In a freezing pit his bones were tossed.