Why are ye wending? O whence and whither?
What shineth over the fallow swords?
What is the joy that ye bear in hither?
What is the tale of your blended words?

No whither we wend, but here have we stayed us,
Here by the ancient Holy Hearth;
Long have the moons and the years delayed us,
But here are we come from the heart of the dearth.

We are the men of joy belated;
We are the wanderers over the waste;
We are but they that sat and waited,
Watching the empty winds make haste.

Long, long we sat and knew no others,
Save alien folk and the foes of the road;
Till late and at last we met our brothers,
And needs must we to the old abode.

For once on a day they prayed for guesting;
And how were we then their bede to do?
Wild was the waste for the people's resting,
And deep the wealth of the Dale we knew.

Here were the boards that we must spread them
Down in the fruitful Dale and dear;
Here were the halls where we would bed them:
And how should we tarry otherwhere?

Over the waste we came together:
There was the tangle athwart the way;
There was the wind-storm and the weather;
The red rain darkened down the day.

But that day of the days what grief should let us,
When we saw through the clouds the dale-glad sun?
We tore at the tangle that beset us,
And stood at peace when the day was done.

Hall of the Happy, take our greeting!
Bid thou the Fathers come and see
The Folk-signs on thy walls a-meeting,
And deem to-day what men we be.

Look on the Holy Hearth new-litten,
How the sparks fly twinkling up aloof!
How the wavering smoke by the sunlight smitten,
Curls up around the beam-rich roof!

For here once more is the Wolf abiding,
Nor ever more from the Dale shall wend,
And never again his head be hiding,
Till all days be dark and the world have end.