The lonely always look for grace,

for the almighty’s mercy,

even as, downhearted,

they touch their hands 

to the rime-cold sea, 

stirring the exile’s expanse.

Things go as they must.

The wanderer said as much, dwelling on hardships,

on blood-fierce slaughter and the fall of friends:

“Alone each dawn I’d talk about my troubles

but there’s none now living I can speak my mind to.

I know warriors have a treasured custom

of locking their soul-chest tightly,

of guarding their hoarded thoughts,

thinking what they want.

But a weary mind can’t withstand events,

the turbulent heart can’t help itself.

Instead the glory-eager bind up anguish

tightly in their breast-coffer;

far from friends and away from home,

I’ve had to fasten my mind with fetters,

since long ago my gold-companion

was hidden under the hard ground,

and I waded in a wintry mood

through the biting sea-waves,

sorrowed for lack of a lodging,

looked for a new lord

lavishing swords and silver,

for where I might find a mead-hall

with one who knows my own mind,

who could comfort me with pleasures.

You know how tough it is to take

sorrow as a fellow-traveller

for one who has few companions:

the exile’s path grips him, not gold-set gems,

an icy spirit-locker, not earth’s splendour.

He recalls friendship and riches,

how in his youth the gold-giver

got him used to gifts and feasting

—such joys fade away.

He understands he must endure

without the wisdom of his hall-friend.

When sadness and slumber together

take the troubled thinker,

it seems that he clasps and kisses

the lord of men in his mind,

lays head and hand in his lap,

just like long ago when he enjoyed

the gift-throne’s golden rewards.

The solitary warrior stirs again,

sees steel-grey breakers ahead,

the sea-birds bathing, widening wings

amid whirls of hardening ice and hail.

Then the heart’s wounds are heavier,

after the loss of his lord. Sorrow returns 

when the mind wanders through

the memories of his kinsmen,

greets the old songs, searches

for the figures of hall-friends.

They always swim away,

the floating spirits singing

none of the familiar stories.  

Care comes back for him

who sends his tired soul

out over the surging waves.

I don’t know why my spirit

doesn’t darken in this world,

when I consider the lives of earls,

how they hastily left the hall,

those high-minded thegns. 

This middle-earth and everything in it

ebbs and falls away each passing day.

A man cannot be wise without

having his measure of winters

in the kingdom of the world.

A wise man must be patient:

not too hot-hearted, nor rash with words,

not too weak a warrior, nor too bloody-minded,

not grasping, gloating, craven,

nor too eager to impress,

before he’s lived his life.

A man must bide his time 

when he utters an oath,

until he knows clearly

his heart’s true intention.

The wise man sees how shattering it is

when all this world stands wasted,

just as now throughout the land

old walls stand wind-haunted,

cold ruins draped with frost-fall. 

The wine-hall crumbles away, 

rulers lying robbed of joy,

retainers slumped proud along the ramparts.

War took some to their doom,

crows carried others over fathomless seas,

while the grey wolf dealt death

to men with tear-stained faces,

hidden under earthen hollows.

The shaper of all living things

laid waste to the circle of the world,

until the ancient works of giants

stood silenced, their people gone. 

The wise man wondered at these 

flickering foundations, learned in spirit,

thought deeply about this dark life,

remembers war and blood-shed,

and speaks these words:

Where is the horse, where is the warrior?

Where is the gift-giver, the glee at feasting?

Where are our earthly joys?

The bright cup, 

the byrnied hero, 

the king’s strength?

All’s now gone, 

grown dark under night-shadow,

as if it had never been;

a high wall stands instead

etched with serpents.

Earls are taken by iron-tipped ash,

slaughter-starved weapons

(so it always goes)

storms knock the slanting fells,

billowing snow-sheets blanket the land,

deep-winter’s tumult; then darkness comes,

louring night-shadow, while from northern reaches

rushing hail greets humankind with wrath.

All is hardship in this kingdom of earth,

twisting chance changes the world under heaven.

Here life is only loaned

—friends are fleeting,

family are fleeting,

folk fall away—

the whole earth becomes empty.”

Thus said the wise man in his mind. He sat apart, pondering these things.

Joy is for the one who keeps faith, who doesn’t let suffering show

unless he first knows how to help himself.

He’ll be well if he looks for his own grace,

the comfort of the father in heaven, 

where our foundation stands.