Money may console you,
though to get any credit
you have to give it away.
The wild and single-minded ox
swings its horns freely,
a bold being, stalking the moors.
The mean thorn
pricks everyone,
evil to seize.
The source of words: Os,
Wisdom's fulfillment, prophecy's reach.
O blessedness and hope.
Riding seemseasy at home
though on the long road
the horse feels hard as stone.
By its flame the living know the torch,
its brightness illuminating
life inside, where we rest.
We give the gift
to us, beautiful thereby.
The exiles miss this.
joy comes not to the soft,
to the untouched, complacent
with the plenty of the town.
Wind tossed, twisting
out of heaven, the white grains
of hail turn to water later.
Need pierces the heart,
though hope whispers here,
if we can bear to listen.
Cold and slick, the ice
glistens like gems,
forms a pure floor.
The new year bestows
God's extravagance of flowers
on merry and miserable alike.
Firm in the earth, the yew
burns well in the fire, the joy
of the land long in the hearth.
In the beerhall
the dice cup clatters.
Th lucky ones laugh.
Water sprouting, fen dwelling,
the cruel elksedge can cut you,
can draw blood from your hand.
The sun is the sailor's hope.
As he rides sea horse over fish bath,
it shows him the shore.
The North Star holds true,
plunging above the night clouds
on its one straight path.
No flowers, no fruit,
yet the birch is beautiful,
its clustering leaves near he sky.
As proud of its hooves
as its rider of his words
for this wanderer's comfort, the horse.
Happy one, rejoice in life-
your friends, your poor body
by certain death betrayed.
Seasick and tired of water,
then terrified as the storm-surge
sweeps over the ship.
First manifest among East Danes,
Ing drove his chariot eastward
over the waves, by then so known.
Nowadays for rights and reasons
and often for the fruits
of harvest, we love the land.
We love the daylight,
God's glorious illumination,
hope for rich and wretched.
The oak is on earth for us.
Feed pigs the acorns.
Make a good boat.
The towering ash we love,
its stout trunk steady too
amid a crowd of enemies.
Strapped to the horse
with the rest of the gear,
the bow, ready to go.
The serpent leaves the sea
to feed and dwells encircled
by water, in pure daylight.
We hate the clay, the cold flesh,
the pale corpse, the fallen
flowers, the broken promise.
Original written in Anglo-Saxon in the early Middle Ages, the Anglo-Saxon Rune poem gives us an alphabet verse for the Anglo-Saxon runes. The Rune poem with its timeless power links us to ages past and provides a key through which we may understand these primal symbols.
This Rune Poem is transcribed here in modern English by poet Jim Paul and is also available as an hardback book with beautiful illustrations. ISBN 0-8118-1136-0.
For anyone who is interested in runes is this book very beautiful, i've read it, Hopjesvla.
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