The Wanderer, Part I, translation of the ancient Anglo-Saxon poem

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.