Wherefore, most often, those eager for fame
Bind the dark mood fast in their breasts.
So must I also curb my mind,
Cut off from country, from kind far distant,
By cares overworn, bind it in fetters;
This since, long ago, the ground's shroud
Enwrapped my gold-friend. Wretched I went thence,
Winter-wearied, over the waves' bound;
Dreary I sought hall of a gold-giver,
Where far or near I might find
Him who in meadhall might take heed of me,
Furnish comfort to a man friendless,
Win me with cheer.
He knows who makes trial
How harsh and bitter is care for companion
To him who hath few friends to shield him.
Track ever taketh him, never the torqued gold,
Not earthly glory, but cold heart's cave.
He minds him of hall-men, of treasure-giving,
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