The PoemS
138. I wot that I hung
on the wind-tossed tree
all of nights nine,
wounded by spear,
bespoken to Othinn,
bespoken myself to myself,
upon that tree
of which none telleth
from what roots it doth rise.
139. Neither horn they upheld
nor handed me bread;
I looked below me-
aloud I cried-
caught up the runes,
caught them up wailing,
thence to the ground I fell again.
140. From the son of Bolthorn,
Bestla´s father,
I mastered mighty songs nine,
and a drink I had
of the dearest mead,
got from out of Othraerir.
Web design by IO © 1996 Comments to live@this.is