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The Wanderer

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The Wanderer

«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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