«Oft I alone must utter my sadness.
Each day before dawn living there’s none,
No man, to whom I’d clearly speak.
My innermost mind I know among.
Men the custom. Truly is noble.
That a man his thoughts fast bind,
Hiding his mind-hoard, whatever he thinks.
For weary spirit may not withstand fate’s ways,
Nor does a sad heart offer men aid.
Thus oft the glory-bound bind fast their drear thoughts
In their own breast.»
The Wanderer, Poem. – Author Anonymous (c.750)
Translated by A. S. Kline ©
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