Ik this giedd wreche bi me ful geomorre,

I shape this lay of my own deep sorrow, my own life’s journey. I can tell of all the trials I have borne since I was grown, both new and old, yet never more than now. Ever I endured my exile’s anguish.

First my lord went forth from his folk and kin, over the waves’ tumult; I held dawn-sorrow, wondering where on earth my lord might wander. Then I set out, a friendless exile, to seek service, driven by my sorrow.

Then my lord’s kinsmen began their dark plotting, scheming in secret to sunder us two, so we would live widest apart in this world, in deepest misery. And longing seized me.

My lord commanded me to make my home here; I had few loved ones in this new land, few loyal friends. And so my heart is grim, for I had found my match, a man hard-fortuned, heavy of heart, hiding his thoughts, brooding on harm. With smiling faces we swore our vows, that naught but death alone could ever part us. Now all that is changed; it is now as if it never were, our love together. Far and near I must suffer the feud of my dearest love.

I was bid to dwell in a wooded grove, under an oak tree in this earth-cave. Ancient this earth-hall, I am filled with longing. The dales are dim, the dunes are high, bitter the boroughs, with briars overgrown, a home without joy. Often his going has gripped me with grief. Friends are on the earth, the living beloved, who lie together, while I at dawn must walk alone under the oak tree, through this earth-cave. There I must sit the summer-long day, there I can weep for my paths of exile, my many sorrows; for I can never find any rest from my heart’s-care, nor from the longing that this life has brought me.

Ever must a young man be grim of spirit, his heart’s thoughts heavy; so too must he hold a cheerful face, though his heart is grieving, an endless sorrow. Whether all his world’s joy depends on himself, or he is an outcast in a distant land—so my friend sits now beneath a stony slope, frosted with storm, my weary-hearted friend, by water encircled in a dreary hall. My friend endures a great mind-sorrow; he remembers too often a happier home. Woe to the one who must in longing wait for the beloved.