#the riders of rohan

Turning back they saw across the River the far hills kindled. Day leaped into the sky. The red rim of the sun rose over the shoulders of the dark land. Before them in the West the world lay still, formless and grey; but even as they looked, the shadows of night melted, the colours of the waking earth returned: green flowed over the wide meads of Rohan; the white mists shimmered in the watervales; and far off to the left, thirty leagues or more, blue and purple stood the White Mountains, rising into peaks of jet, tipped with glimmering snows, flushed with the rose of morning.

‘Gondor! Gondor!’ cried Aragorn. 'Would that I looked on you again in happier hour! Not yet does my road lie southward to your bright streams.

        Gondor! Gondor, between the Mountains and the Sea!
        West Wind blew there; the light upon the Silver Tree
        Fell like bright rain in gardens of the Kings of old.
        O proud walls! White towers! O winged crown and throne of gold!
        O Gondor, Gondor! Shall Men behold the Silver Tree,
        Or West Wind blow again between the Mountains and the Sea?