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"The Seafarer" an anonymous poem of uncertain date, was found in the

Exeter Book, one of the four important collections of Anglo-Saxon poetry

that has survived.

his tale is true, and mine. It tells

How the sea took me, swept me back

And forth in sorrow and fear and pain,

Showed me suffering in a hundred ships,

In a thousand ports, and in me. It tells

Of smashing surf when I sweated in the cold

Of an anxious watch, perched in the bow

As it dashed under cliffs. My feet were cast

In icy bands, bound with frost,

With frozen chains, and hardship groaned

Around my heart. Hunger tore

At my sea-weary soul. No man sheltered

On the quiet fairness of earth can feel

How wretched I was, drifting through winter

On an ice-cold sea, whirled in sorrow,

Alone in a world blown clear of love,

Hung with icicles. The hailstorms flew.

The only sound was the roaring sea,

The freezing waves. The song of the swan

Might serve for pleasure, the cry of the sea-fowl,

The death-noise of birds instead of laughter,

The mewing of gulls instead of mead.

Storms beat on the rocky cliffs and were echoed

By ice-feathered terns and the eagles screams;

No kinsman could offer comfort there,

To a soul left drowning in desolation.

nd who could believe, knowing but

The passion of cities, swelled proud with wine

And no taste of misfortune, how often, how wearily,

I put myself back on the paths of the sea,

Night would blacken; it would snow from the north;

Frost bound the earth and hail would fall,

The coldest seeds. And how my heart

Would begin to beat, knowing once more

The salt waves tossing and the towering sea!

The time for journeys would come and my soul

Called me eagerly out, sent me over

The horizon, seeking foreigners' homes.

But there isn't a man on earth so proud,
So born in greatness, so bold with his youth,
Grown so grave, or so graced by God,
That he feels no fear as the sails unfurl,
Wondering what Fate has willed and will do.
No harps ring in his heart, no rewards,
No passion for women, no worldly pleasures,
Nothing, only the oceans heave;
But longing wraps itself around him.
Orchards blossom, the towns bloom,
Fields grow lovely as the world springs fresh,
And all these admonish that willing mind
Leaping to journeys, always set
In thoughts traveling on a quickening tide.
So summer's sentinel, the cuckoo, sings
In his murmuring voice, and our hearts mourn
As he urges. Who could understand,
In ignorant ease, what we others suffer
As the path of exile stretch endlessly on?

And yet my heart wanders away,
My soul roams with the sea, the wales'
Home, wandering to the wildest corners
Of the world, returning ravenous with desire,
Flying solitary, screaming, exciting me
To the open ocean, breaking oaths
On the curve of a wave.

Thus the joys of God
Are feverent with life, where life itself
Fades quickly into the earth. The wealth
Of the world neither reaches to Heaven nor remains.
No man has ever faced the dawn
Certain which of Fate's three threats
Would fall: illness, or age, or an enemy's
Sword, snatching the life form his soul.
The praise the living pour on the dead
Flowers from reputation: plant
An earthly life of profit reaped
Even from hatred and rancor, of bravery
Flung in the devil's face, and death
Can only bring you earthly praise
And a song to celebrate a place
With the angels, life eternally blessed
In the hosts of Heaven.

The days are gone
When the kingdoms of earth flourished in glory;
Now there are no rulers, no emperors,
No givers of gold, as once there were,
When wonderful things were worked among them
And they lived in lordly magnificence.
Those powers have vanished, those pleasures are dead.
The weakest survives and the world continues,
Kept spinning by toil. All glory is tarnished.
The world's honor ages and shrinks,
Bent like the men who mold it. Their faces
Blanch as time advances, their beards
Wither and they mourn the memory of friends.
The sons of princes, sown in the dust.
The soul stripped of its flesh knows nothing
Of sweetness or sour, feels no pain,
Bends neither its hand nor its brain. A brother
Opens his palms and pours down gold
On his kinsman's grave, strewing his coffin
With treasures intended for Heaven, but nothing
Golden shakes the wrath of God
For a soul overflowing with sin, and nothing
Hidden on earth rises to Heaven.