Weland the blade-winder     suffered woe. That steadfast man     knew misery. Sorrow and longing     walked beside him, wintered in him,     kept wearing him down after Nithad     hampered and restrained him, lithe sinew-bonds     on the better man. That passed over,     this can too. For Beadohilde     her brother’s death weighed less heavily     than her own heartsoreness once it was clearly     understood she was bearing a child.     Her ability to think and decide     deserted her then. That passed over,     this can too. We have heard tell     of Mathilde’s laments, the grief that afflicted     Geat’s wife. Her love was her bane,     it banished sleep. That passed over,     this can too. For thirty winters–     it was common knowledge– Theodric held     the Maerings’ fort. That passed over,     this can too. Earmonric     had the mind of a wolf, by all accounts     a cruel king, lord of the far flung     Gothic outlands. Everywhere men sat     shackled in sorrow, expecting the worst,     wishing often he and his kingdom     would be conquered. That passed over,     this can too. A man sits mournful,     his mind in darkness, so daunted in spirit     he deems himself ever after     fated to endure. He may think then     how throughout this world the Lord in his wisdom     often works change– meting out honor,     ongoing fame to many, to others     only their distress. Of myself, this much     I have to say: for a time I was poet     of the Heoden people, dear to my lord.     Deor was my name. For years I enjoyed     my duties as minstrel and that lord’s favor,     but now the freehold and land titles     he bestowed upon me once he has vested in Heorrenda,     master of verse-craft. That passed over,     this can too. Welund him be wurman      wræces cunnade, anhydig eorl     earfoþa dreag, hæfde him to gesiþþe     sorge and longaþ, wintercealde wræce,     wean oft onfond siþþan hine Niðhad on     nede legde, swoncre seonobende     on syllan monn. Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg. Beadohilde ne wæs     hyre broþra deaþ on sefan swa sar     swa hyre sylfre þing, þæt heo gearolice     ongietan hæfde þæt heo eacen wæs;     æfre ne meahte þriste geþencan     hu ymb þæt sceolde. Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg. We þæt Mæðhilde      mone gefrugnon wurdon grundlease     Geates frige, þæt hi seo sorglufu     slæp ealle binom. Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg. Ðeodric ahte      þritig wintra Mæringa burg;     þæt wæs monegum cuþ. Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg. We geascodan     Eormanrices wylfenne geþoht;     ahte wide folc Gotena rices;     þæt wæs grim cyning. Sæt secg monig     sorgum gebunden, wean on wenan,     wyscte geneahhe þæt þæs cynerices     ofercumen wære. Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg. Siteð sorgcearig,     sælum bidæled, on sefan sweorceð,     sylfum þinceð þæt sy endeleas     earfoða dæl, mæg þonne geþencan     þæt geond þas woruld witig Dryhten     wendeþ geneahhe, eorle monegum     are gesceawað, wislicne blæd,     sumum weana dæl. Þæt ic bi me sylfum     secgan wille, þæt ic hwile wæs     Heodeninga scop, dryhtne dyre;     me wæs Deor noma. Ahte ic fela wintra     folgað tilne, holdne hlaford,     oþ þæt Heorrenda nu, leoðcræftig monn,     londryht geþah þæt me eorla hleo     ær gesealde. Þæs ofereode,     þisses swa mæg.

So you have swept me back, I who have walked with the live souls above the earth, I who have slept among the live flowers at last; so for your arrogance and your ruthlessness I am swept back where dead lichens drip dead cinders upon moss of ash; so for your arrogance I am broken at last, I who had lived unconscious, who was almost forgot; if you had let me wait I had grown from listlessness into peace, if you had let me rest with the dead, I had forgot you and the past. II Here only flame upon flame and black among the red sparks, streaks of black and light grown colorless why did you turn back, that hell should be reinhabited of myself thus swept into nothingness? why did you turn back? why did you glance back? why did you hesitate for that moment? why did you bend your face caught with the flame of the upper earth, above my face? what was it that crossed my face with the light from yours and your glance? what was it you saw in my face? the light of your own face, the fire of your own presence? what had my face to offer but reflex of the earth, hyacinth colour caught from the raw fissure in the rock where the light struck, and the colour of azure crocuses, and the bright surface of gold crocuses and of the wind-flower, swift in its veins as lightning and as white. III Saffron from the fringe of the earth, wild saffron that has bent over the sharp edge of earth, all the flowers that cut through the earth, all, all the flowers are lost; everything is lost, everything is crossed with black, black upon black and worse than black, this colourless light. IV Fringe upon fringe of blue crocuses, crocuses, walled against blue of themselves, blue of that upper earth. blue of the depth upon depth of flowers, lost; flowers, if I could have taken once my breath of them, enough of them, more than earth, even than of the upper earth, had passed with me beneath the earth; If I could have caught up from the earth, the whole of the flowers of the earth, if once I could have breathed into myself the very golden crocuses and the red and the very golden hearts of the first saffron, the whole of the golden mass, the whole of the great fragrance, I could have dared the loss. V So for your arrogance and your ruthlessness I have lost the earth and the flowers of the earth, and the live souls above the earth, and you who passed across the light and reached ruthless; you who have your own light, who are to yourself a presence, who need no presence; yet for all your arrogance and your glance, I tell you this: such loss is no loss, such terror, such coils and strands and pitfalls of blackness such terror is no loss; hell is no worse than your earth above the earth, hell is no worse, no, nor your flowers nor your veins of light nor your presence, a loss; my hell is no worse than yours though you pass among the flowers and speak with the spirits above the earth. VI Against the black I have more fervour than you in all the splendour of that place, against the blackness and the stark grey I have more light; and the flowers, if I should tell you, you would turn from your own fit paths toward hell, turn again and glance back and I would sink into a place even more terrible than this. VII At least I have the flowers of myself, and my thoughts, no god can take that; I have the fervour of myself for a presence and my own spirit for light; and my spirit with its loss knows this; though small against the black, small against the formless rocks, hell must break before I am lost; before I am lost, hell must open like a red rose for the dead to pass.