His head was bowed with gathered flakes of years,
As winter bends the sea-foreboding pine, 60
But something triumphed in his brow and eye,
Which whoso saw it could not see and crouch: 
Loud rang the emptied beakers as he mused,
Brooding his eyried thoughts; then, as an eagle
Circles smooth-winged above the wind-vexed woods,
So wheeled his soul into the air of song
High o’er the stormy hall; and thus he sang: 
’The fletcher for his arrow-shaft picks out
Wood closest-grained, long-seasoned, straight as light;
And from a quiver full of such as these 70
The wary bowman, matched against his peers,
Long doubting, singles yet once more the best. 
Who is it needs such flawless shafts as Fate? 
What archer of his arrows is so choice,
Or hits the white so surely?  They are men,
The chosen of her quiver; nor for her
Will every reed suffice, or cross-grained stick
At random from life’s vulgar fagot plucked: 
Such answer household ends; but she will have
Souls straight and clear, of toughest fibre, sound 80
Down to the heart of heart; from these she strips
All needless stuff, all sapwood; seasons them;
From circumstance untoward feathers plucks
Crumpled and cheap; and barbs with iron will: 
The hour that passes is her quiver-boy: 
When she draws bow, ’tis not across the wind,
Nor ’gainst the sun her haste-snatched arrow sings,
For sun and wind have plighted faith to her: 
Ere men have heard the sinew twang, behold
In the butt’s heart her trembling messenger! 90

’The song is old and simple that I sing;
But old and simple are despised as cheap,
Though hardest to achieve of human things: 
Good were the days of yore, when men were tried
By ring of shields, as now by ring of words;
But while the gods are left, and hearts of men,
And wide-doored ocean, still the days are good. 
Still o’er the earth hastes Opportunity,
Seeking the hardy soul that seeks for her. 
Be not abroad, nor deaf with household cares 100
That chatter loudest as they mean the least;
Swift-willed is thrice-willed; late means nevermore;
Impatient is her foot, nor turns again.’ 
He ceased; upon his bosom sank his beard
Sadly, as one who oft had seen her pass
Nor stayed her:  and forthwith the frothy tide
Of interrupted wassail roared along. 
But Bioern, the son of Heriulf, sat apart
Musing, and, with his eyes upon the fire,
Saw shapes of arrows, lost as soon as seen. 110
‘A ship,’ he muttered,’is a winged bridge
That leadeth every way to man’s desire,
And ocean the wide gate to manful luck.’ 
And then with that resolve his heart was bent,
Which, like a humming shaft, through many a stripe
Of day and night, across the unpathwayed seas
Shot the brave prow that cut on Vinland sands
The first rune in the Saga of the West.