Spells: New and Selected Poems

The Seafarer

185 the​seaFarer From the Anglo-Saxon, c. A.D. 550–950 I​keep​the​track​ of​a​song​true​of​me: I’ll​tell​of​trials,​ struggling​times, hard​days,​ and​how​I​endured. I​have​borne​ such​bitter​cares, held​on​ships​ whole​houses​of​cares. Awful​sea-​ waves​ tossed​where​I​kept narrowed​watches​ on​the​stern​at​night and​the​ship​beat​cliffs. ​ Thronged​in​cold were​my​feet,​bound​in​fros​ bound​in​thoughtt with​chains​of​cold,​ while​hunger​slit my​ocean-​ weary​mood.​ They​do​not​know, whom​fair​things​ befall​on​land, how,​care-​ worn​wretch,​ I​stayed​at​sea and​wintered​an​exile’s​ icy​tracks, shorn​of​kin, hung​with​icicles. ​ Hail-​ showers​flew. There​I​heard​only​ the​whirring​sea, ice-​ cold​wave,​ or​else​the​call of​swans​for​a​game,​ gannet’s​laughter and​curlew’s​song​ for​human​laughter, mew’s​singing​ for​mead​to​drink. Storms​beat​the​stone​cliffs;​ the​tern​answered, icy-​ feathered.​ No​strong​kinfolk could​help​my​heart,​ which​hollowness​held. And​they​hardly​know,​ who​have​life’s​joy by​staying​in​towns,​ they​of​few​hardships, lustful​and​flushed,​ how​often​I,​weary, was​forced​to​stay​out​ on​the​salty​sea. 186 Night’s​shadow​darkened,​ snow​from​the​north, ground​bound​by​frost;​ hail​fell​on​earth, coldest​corn​.​.​. ​ And​now!​there​beats a​thought​in​my​heart​ that​I​should​try the​high​waves,​ the​salty​tossing; my​heart’s​need​ always​urges my​spirit​out​ away​from​here, seeking​only​ another​place. And​there​is​no​person​ so​bold​on​the​earth, nor​so​good​in​gifts,​ nor​so​quick​in​youth, nor​so​eager​in​acts,​ nor​with​friends​so​kind, So​as​not​to​sorrow​ ​ at​sea​always, about​what​Heaven​ might​finally​bring. Our​minds​are​not​ on​harping,​nor​on​rings, nor​on​joy​in​love,​ nor​on​bliss​in​this​world, nor​on​anything​else—​ but​on​that​tossing. We​are​always​longing,​ we​who​move​over​water​.​.​. Groves​take​blossom,​ towns​are​adorned, fields​brighten;​ the​world​moves​on; then​all​urges​ the​pressing​mood to​journey​out,​ in​those​who​crave to​move​far​ on​flood​ways. And​the​cuckoo​urges,​ calling​sad; the​guard​of​summer​ sings,​boding a​hoard​of​sorrow.​ They​do​not​know, the​soft​easy​folks,​ what​some​undergo who​lay​these​wide​ exile’s​tracks​.​.​. Now​my​heart​turns​ high​over​hemming​breast, my​mood​moves​ out​with​the​sea-​ flood, it​turns​wide,​high​over​whale-​ paths— 187 sweeps​of​the​earth—​ and​swoops​back​to​me winged​and​eager​—​ the​hungry​one​yells, whets​for​whale-​ ways​ my​breast​resistlessly, the​stretch​of​the​seas​.​.​. ​ and​to​me​they​are​hotter, the​delights​of​Heaven,​ than​this​dead​life loaned​us​on​land.​ I​do​not​believe that​earth’s​ways​ stand​eternal​for​Heaven. One​of​three​things​ brings​each​noble​servant, down​to​doubt​ before​the​last​day. Sick​or​old​ or​hated​by​a​sword, doomed​and​wrecked,​ our​lives​are​wrenched. For​each​noble,​therefore,​ the​praise​of​the​living, of​after-​ speakers—​ word-​ tracks—are​best​.​.​. So​here​let​us​work,​ before​we​have​to​go, good​deeds​on​earth​ against​demons’​evil, brave​deeds​ to​the​harm​of​the​devil, so​all​our​children​ will​extol​us, and​our​praise​then​ live​with​the​angels for​long​ages,​ eternal​life’s​glory, delight​of​that​host​.​.​. ​ Days​have​departed, carrying​the​pomp​ of​earth’s​countries; now​quiet​are​ the​crowns​and​caesars the​gold-​ givers​ who’ve​gone​before, with​mighty​deeds​ made​among​themselves, and​lives​known​ for​the​noblest​renown​.​.​. All​that​host​has​fallen.​ Delights​have​faded; the​worst​are​still​here​ and​they​hold​the​world, busily​share​in​it. 188 ​ Glory​is​bowed; earth’s​dignity​ ages​and​ends, as​each​of​us​does​ throughout​our​world. Age​gains​on​us,​ our​faces​pale, grizzle-​ headed​we​grieve;​ our​friends​have​gone, royal​children​ changed​into​earth. Nor​can​the​house​of​flesh,​ when​life​has​failed​us​so, taste​the​sweet​ nor​feel​the​sore nor​stir​a​hand​ nor​hold​a​thought. And​though​on​the​graves​ of​our​great​dead we​strew​gold,​ bury​with​death various​gifts,​ they​do​not​go​along...