[Riddle 7]
by Anonymous (from the Exeter Book)Hrægl mīn swīga∂ þonne ic hrusan trede
oþþe þā wīc būge oþþe wado drēfe.
Hwīlum mec ahebbað ofer hæleþa byht,
hyrste mīne ond þēos hēa lyft,
ond mec þonne wide wolcna strengu
ofer folc byreð. Frætwe mīne
swōgað hlūde ond swinsiað
torhte singað þonne ic getenge ne bēom
flōde ond foldan, ferende gǣst.
[Riddle 7]
by Anonymous (from the Exeter Book)My clothes stay quiet as I cross the earth
or let down on a dwelling or drive the waves.
At times my trimmings and the mighty sky
muster me up over men’s nooks
and then cloud’s clout bears me about
over the folk. My bits of kit
sound out loudly and sing a line
noting finely when I’m not near
river and ground, a rambling ghost.
translated from Old English by Evan Klavon