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The Wyrdes were like the Fates, controlling human destinies.

The Wanderer
ancient Anglo-Saxon poem
translation by Michael R. Burch

“The one who wanders alone
longs for mercy, longs for grace,
knowing he must yet traverse
the whale-path’s rime-cold waters,
stirring the waves with his hands & oars,
heartsick & troubled in spirit,
always bending his back to his exile-ways.”

“Fate is inexorable.”

Thus spoke the wanderer, mindful of life’s hardships & the deaths of dear kinsmen.

“Often I am driven, departing at daybreak,
to give my griefs utterance,
the stifled songs of a sick heart
sung to no listeners, to no living lord,
for now there are none left alive
to debate my innermost doubts.

Custom considers it noble for a man
to harbor his thought-hoard,
keep it close to his chest,
shut the doors of his doubts,
bind sorrow to silence & be still.

But the outcast cannot withstand Wyrdes,
nor may his shipwrecked heart welcome any hope of healing.

Therefore men often bind unwailed woes in their breast-coffers.

Thus, miserably sad, overcome by cares, 
far from my homeland & noble kinsmen, 
I was forced to bind my thoughts in iron fetters,
to confine my breast-hoard to its bone-cage.

Long ago the dark earth covered my lord & I was left alone,
winter-weary & wretched, to cross these wrenching waves friendless.

Saddened, I sought the hall of some new gold-giver,
someone who might welcome me,
the owner of some friendly mead-hall
offering comfort to men left friendless by Fate.

Anyone left lordless, kinless & friendless
knows how bitter-cruel life becomes
to one bereft of protectors,
sorrows his only companions.

No one waits to welcome the wanderer!

His only rewards, cold nights & the frigid sea.

Only exile-paths await him,
not torques of twisted gold,
warm hearths & his lord’s trust.

Only cold hearts’ frozen feelings, not human warmth.

Then he longingly remembers retainers, feasts & the receiving of treasure,
how in his youth his gold-friend recognized him at the table.

But now all pleasure has vanished & his dreams taste like dust!

The wanderer knows what it means to do without:
without the wise counsels of his beloved lord, kinsmen & friends.

The lone outcast, wandering the headlands alone,
where solitariness & sorrow sleep together!

Then the wretched vagabond
remembers in his heart how he embraced & kissed his lord
& laid his hands & head upon his knee,
in those former days of grace at the gift-stool.

But the wanderer always awakes without friends.
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