High on the mountains highest ridge
Where oft the stormy winter gale
Cuts life a scythe, while through the clouds
It sweeps from vale to vale;
Not five yards from the mountain path,
Silvertine you on the left espy;
And to the left, three yards beyond,
You see a little muddy pound.
I looked around, I thought I saw
A jutting crag, and off I ran,
Head-foremost, through the driving rain,
The shelter of the crag to gain;
And, as I am a man,
Instead a jutting crag, I found
Durins tower up from the ground...