Harken and hear how the old poet sang,
The Heodening hearth-man Heorrenda replaced,
Of troubles that took place in times ere his own,
Found in them and faith for himself some ease,
Knowledge that nobody is not without troubles,
And others will often endure far worse,
Recited a refrain that rings down the years.

Dear child, delightful in all of my days,
Cold is the comfort in moments of conflict
That words can work, however well made,
But better a blanket that bears the night’s chill
When put on than none, for when it is worn
And the longer it’s lifted, the less is the cold,
The greater the gain of good warmth in it.

My body has borne that blanket not seldom,
Sought for solace in scribe-works of old
And makings of words from more modern days.
It gave to me gifts, the greatest I have,
And treasures far truer than troubles in life,
Even the evils that evince themselves.
Those passed away; so too may this one.

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