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I MET a Grey Pilgrim from an antique land,
Who said, "One vast and sorcerous shaft of stone
Stands in Isengard. Near it, on the ground,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Saruman, of many colours.
Look on my works ye Mighty, and despair!"
No thing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that Colossal Wreck, boundless and bare,
The green and ancient Fangorn stretches far away.