A Poet's Harvest Home Being One Hundred Short Poems: By William Bell Scott ... With an Aftermath of Twenty Short Poems |
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A Poet's Harvest Home | ||
Round by Lessoe's broken strand,
Out by Elsinore's white sand,
They ride the dark-green ocean free,
Straight westward to the English sea,
With heavy brand and grasping hand
They swoop down on nord-Humber land.
Out by Elsinore's white sand,
They ride the dark-green ocean free,
Straight westward to the English sea,
With heavy brand and grasping hand
They swoop down on nord-Humber land.
And now the green cloth, red cloth rare,
He wins Gudrun to shape and wear,
A golden tire for her light hair
When the bower-maidens braid it tight,
After the marriage day and night;
Many a gift to hang in hall,
And great carved chest to hold them all.
He wins Gudrun to shape and wear,
A golden tire for her light hair
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After the marriage day and night;
Many a gift to hang in hall,
And great carved chest to hold them all.
On they pass from shore to shore,
But runners fleet have fled before;
Mascled breast, mailed hand and knee,
Gather within the high mole's lee.
Ah, wide-winged Hugin now flies past
To Valhall's high wall bound so fast:
Were I a true skald, I could see
The fate-dealing Damsels, three by three,
Fold up their sleeves, beneath each heart
Tighten their girdles, and depart.
But runners fleet have fled before;
Mascled breast, mailed hand and knee,
Gather within the high mole's lee.
Ah, wide-winged Hugin now flies past
To Valhall's high wall bound so fast:
Were I a true skald, I could see
The fate-dealing Damsels, three by three,
Fold up their sleeves, beneath each heart
Tighten their girdles, and depart.
A Poet's Harvest Home | ||