Classic Poem

I sing of myself, a sorrowful woman,
of my own unhap. All I have felt,
since I grew up, of ill let me say,
be it new or old--never more than now:
I have borne the cross of my cares, always.

First my friend went far from home,
over the waves; I was awake at dawn,
I wondered where he was, day and night.
Then I went out, unhappy wife,
lonely and wretched, looking for fellowship.

The man's kindred, with minds of darkness,
began to plot to part us two,
that we might lead a life most hateful,
live most aloof, and I longed for him.

My lord bade me lodge in this hut
Little I know of love-making here,
of sweet friendship. My soul is mournful
to find my man, my friend, my mate
heavy-hearted, happy not at all,
hiding his mood, harboring ill
under a blithe bearing. We both made vow
that death alone should drive us asunder,
naught else in the world; that was, but is no more;
it is now as if it had never been,
that friendship of ours. Far and nigh now
I must bear the hate of my best beloved.

They drove me out to dwell in the woods
under an oak tree, in that old stone-heap.
Fallen is this house; I am filled with yearning.
The dales are dim, the downs are high,
the bitter yards with briars are grown,
the seats are sorrowful. I am sick at heart,
he is so far from me. There are friends on earth,
lovers living that lie together,
while I, early and all alone,
walk under the oak tree, wander through these halls.
There I must sit the summerlong day,
there I can rue my wretchedness,
bewail my many woes, my hardships
for I cannot rest from my cares ever,
nor from all the longing that in this life befell me.

It is the way of a young man to be woeful in mood,
hard in his heart's thought; to have, besides,
a blithe bearing and a breast full of care,
a throng of woes alike when his worldly bliss
belongs all to him and when he lives an outcast
in a far country. My friend is sitting,
a cliff for shelter, cold in the storm,
a friend weary in mood, flooded with water
in his dismal dwelling, doomed to sorrow.

That man, my friend, is mindful too often
of a happier house. Hard is the lot
of one that longs for love in vain.