[HerenIstarion]

Once upon a midnight dreary, Fatty pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of the cookery lore,
While he nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," he muttered, "tapping at my chamber door-
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak September,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly he wished the morrow - vainly had he sought to borrow
From his books surcease of sorrow- wish to be the lone no more-
For the rare quest he was enthrusted and the Nazgul at the door -
Nameless here for ever more!

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled him and filled with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of his heart, he stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;-
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently his soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said he, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here he opened wide the door;-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long he stood there wondering,
fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Mordor!"
This he whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Mordor!"-
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all his soul within him burning,
Soon again he heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said he, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore-
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;-
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here he flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and
flutter,
In there stepped a stately warrior of the ghastly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed
he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, stood afore his chamber door-
Stood into the Crick of Hollow just afore his chamber door-
Glint of eye, and nothing more.

Then his ebony hood beguiling Bolger’s fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance he wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," said he, "art sure no
craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient warrior wandering from the Nightly shore-
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Sauronian shore!"
Quoth the warrior, "To Mordor."

Much he marvelled this ungainly lord to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was cursed with seeing Wraith afore his chamber door-
Live or Dead upon the dusty porch afore his chamber door,
With such name as "Tomordor."

But the warrior, standing lonely on the dusty porch, spoke only
These two words, as if his soul in these words he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a garment then he fluttered-
Till the hobbit merely muttered, "other friends have flown
before-
On the morrow he will leave me, as my mates have flown before."
Then the lord said, "To Mordor."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
Fatty pondered, "what he utters must be only stock and store,
Learnt from some cartography Master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore-
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of this olden- old Mordor."

But the Nazgul still beguiling all his fancy into smiling,
Straight he wheeled a cushioned seat in front of lord, and porch and
door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, Fatty took himself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous lord of yore-
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous lord of yore
Meant in croaking "To Mordor."

This he sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the lord whose fiery eyes now burned into his bosom's core;
This and more he sat divining, with his head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
Baggins shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then he thought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," He cried, "Dark Lord hath lent thee- by these roads he
hath sent thee
Respite- respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Mordor!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this old Mordor!"
Quoth the warrior, "To Mordor."

"Prophet!" said he, "thing of evil!- prophet still, if man or
devil!-
Whether Dark Lord sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted-
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore-
Is there- is there way to Havens?- tell me- tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Warrior, "To Mordor."

"Be that word our sign in parting, man or fiend," he shrieked,
upstarting-
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Sauronian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the porch afore my door!
Take thy claw from out my heart, and take thy form from off my
door!"
Quoth the Warrior, "To Mordor."

Than the Bolger, suddenly flitting, in the air his fists a-beating
To the pallid road to Buckland just in time has hit the door;
And his yells had all the hearing of great fear expressed in screaming
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throwed his shadow on the
moor;
And his soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the moor
Was not taken to Mordor!