Weird is the wyrd of man, and wild,
writ on stars with sacred stile,
carved on ash of ages blessed,
'graved on leaves; those leaves confess
the truth to those who hang for nine --
nine days, nine nights, by hanging line.
Now eye will open, source of awe,
and wise becomes the Hanging God,
wise with lore of ancient runes,
wise in ways of birth and doom.
A draught fresh-drawn from prophet's well
from which the poets drink their fill,
the scops who with their eddas dream
of things to come and things unseen,
will wake from slumber sleeping thoughts;
then wise becomes the prophet-God,
who in his passion to be wise
will tear his flesh and give an eye.
Ravens beyond the rainbow-bridge
with peircing eye for all things hid
go back and forth through every land --
of death, of elf, of god, of man,
through all ages, restless, roam
from root to crown to Father's throne:
Memory, thought, turned to wing,
seeking out all things unseen.
But one-eyed Father, endless, wise,
who sees each wyrd beneath the skies,
knows, regards, with wisdom mild
no stranger fate than a human child's.
Francesca and Paolo
I asked them for their tale.
Sulking Paolo only wept,
but Francesca said with sorrow,
"It was the book's fault,
in which we read of Lance and Gwen,
for what the book said, we did,
and when they touched and kissed,
then Paolo, and this was his fault,
leaned in with touch and kiss,
and I could not but give return,
for Love overpowers all.
Because of what was Love's fault
we read no more that day."
So said Francesca sadly;
sulking Paolo only wept.