[Ic þis giedd wrece yes bi me ful geomorre,]
Ic þis giedd wrece yes bi me ful geomorre,
minre sylfre sið. Ic þæt secgan mæg,
hwæt ic yrmþa gebad, siþþan ic up aweox,
niwes oþþe ealdes, no ma þonne nu.
A ic wite wonn minra wræcsiþa.
Ærest min hlaford gewat heonan of leodum
ofer yþa gelac; hæfde ic uhtceare
hwær min leodfruma londes wære.
Ða ic me feran gewat folgað secan,
wineleas wræcca, for minre weaþearfe.
Ongunnon þæt þæs monnes magas hycgan
þurh dyrne geþoht, þæt hy todælden unc,
þæt wit gewidost in woruldrice
lifdon laðlicost, ond mec longade.
Het mec hlaford min her eard niman,
ahte ic leofra lyt on þissum londstede,
holdra freonda. Forþon is min hyge geomor.
Ða ic me ful gemæcne monnan funde,
heardsæligne, hygegeomorne,
mod miþendne, morþor hycgendne
bliþe gebæro. Ful oft wit beotedan
þæt unc ne gedælde nemne deað ana
owiht elles; eft is þæt onhworfen.
Is nu swa hit næfre wære
freondscipe uncer. Sceal ic feor ge neah
mines felaleofan fæhðu dreogan.
Heht mec mon wunian on wuda bearwe,
under actreo in þam eorðscræfe.
Eald is þes eorðsele, eal ic eom oflongad.
Sindon dena dimme, duna uphea,
bitre burgtunas, brerum beweaxne,
wic wynna leas. Ful oft mec her wraþe begeat
fromsiþ frean. Frynd sind on eorþan,
leofe lifgende, leger weardiað,
þonne ic on uhtan ana gonge
under actreo geond þas eorðscrafu
þær ic sittan mot sumorlangne dæg,
þær ic wepan mæg mine wræcsiþas,
earfoþa fela; forþon ic æfre ne mæg
þære modceare minre gerestan,
ne ealles þæs longaþes þe mec on þissum life begeat.
A scyle geong mon wesan geomormod,
heard heortan geþoht, swylce habban sceal
bliþe gebæro, eac þon breostceare,
sinsorgna gedreag. Sy æt him sylfum gelong
eal his worulde wyn, sy ful wide fah
feorres folclondes, þæt min freond siteð
under stanhliþe storme behrimed,
wine werigmod, wætre beflowen
on dreorsele. Dreogeð se min wine
micle modceare; he gemon to oft
wynlicran wic. Wa bið þam þe sceal
of langoþe leofes abidan.
beneath an oak
The Wife’s Lament
here’s a sad one about
where i’ve been. listen:
life’s been rough, but
never worse than now.
every step stings.
first he left, slipped to
sea. i worried watching dawn,
wondering where he went.
duty called. i followed,
left. lack exiled me.
his kin conspired,
darkly, to keep us
worlds apart.
and i longed.
he made me move here.
i have no friends—nothing
but a heavy heart.
mister right, i found,
was troubled, glum,
keeping secrets, plotting murder,
smiling. we swore
nothing—only death—
could divide us. it’s all fucked now.
it’s like it never happened—
our friendship. he hates me
—my love—wherever i go.
he sent me to the woods,
to a cave beneath an oak,
an old clay hall. and i long.
mountains climb, dimming valleys;
weeds seize towns left
empty. his absence
cripples me. the world’s lovers
live and sleep together
while i pace before dawn alone
in a cave beneath an oak,
where i sit summer-long days,
crying over
everything. worry
keeps me up,
and longing, all this longing.
he’ll always be sad,
callous. maybe
he smiles, still he suffers—
always. whether
he has what he wants
or drifts outlawed, (i bet)
my old friend sits,
dreary, under rimed cliffs
in a flooded hall, tired. yes,
he suffers, remembering days
in the city. woe to those
who long for love.
translated from Old English by Elijah John Petzold