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 tomb , in Moria, in Khazad-dûm but still the sunken stars appear. In dark and windless Mirrormere. There lies his crown in water deep, till Durin wakes again from sleep.