Their bounty now came from their fields of corn
not from battlefields any more;
for feasting and drinking they raised the horn,
not for the signals of war.

The voice of the Skald rose mellow as mead;
the maidens were smiling warm
when he praised their tresses, golden as wheat
or the wealth on a ring-giver´s arm.

And through the glad night they cheered all along:
“A song still, a song !”

The youths for fortune the seas would roam,
their sails being scattered like leaves
by the autumn wind, which those at home
heard whistling around the eaves.

A tapestry woven of memory´s twine
at times the Skald would unfold,
collecting old glory like grapes from the vine
when valorous deeds were retold.

The old fighters felt suddenly unrest
and glanced at their swords on the wall;
but the women, sighing, gazed into the west
whence their sons should have come with the fall.

But still they bid, when the hours grew long:
“A song, one more song.”

Like tides of sea passed the seasons; a day
of winter shone cold on the coast.
The hair of the hall folk was grizzled and gray,
and the Skald´s was as white as frost.

He sang of their kinsmen who´d come no more,
long lost to the ocean or mound,
whose ships now sailed to a stranger shore
by unknown waters bound.

That his voice had a catch, and a shimmer his eye
was maybe from the smoke or the fire;
but when his wizened hands stopped play,
a string did snap on his lyre –

And he said in a silence that lasted too long:
“No song, no more song.”