[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
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