Then into a skein I wound them,
  Bound them fast into a bundle,
  Laid upon my ledge the burthen,
  Bore them with me to my dwelling,
  On the garret beams I stored them,
  In the great chest bound with copper.

  Long time in the cold they lay there,
  Under lock and key a long time;
  From the cold shall I forth bring them? 
  Bring my lays from out the frost there
  ’Neath this roof so wide-renowned? 
  Here my song-chest shall I open,
  Chest with runic lays o’errunning? 
  Shall I here untie my bundle,
  And begin my skein unwinding?
       * * * * *
  Now my lips at last must close them
  And my tongue at last be fettered;
  I must leave my lay unfinished,
  And must cease from cheerful singing;
  Even the horses must repose them
  When all day they have been running;
  Even the iron’s self grows weary
  Mowing down the summer grasses;
  Even the water sinks to quiet
  From its rushing in the river;
  Even the fire seeks rest in ashes
  That all night hath roared and crackled;
  Wherefore should not music also,
  Song itself, at last grow weary
  After the long eve’s contentment
  And the fading of the twilight? 
  I have also heard say often,
  Heard it many times repeated,
  That the cataract swift-rushing
  Not in one gush spends its waters,
  And in like sort cunning singers
  Do not spend their utmost secret,
  Yea, to end betimes is better
  Than to break the thread abruptly.

  Ending, then, as I began them,
  Closing thus and thus completing,
  I fold up my pack of ballads,
  Roll them closely in a bundle,
  Lay them safely in the storeroom,
  In the strong bone-castle’s chamber,
  That they never thence be stolen,
  Never in all time be lost thence,
  Though the castle’s wall be broken,
  Though the bones be rent asunder,
  Though the teeth may be pried open,
  And the tongue be set in motion.

  How, then, were it sang I always
  Till my songs grew poor and poorer,
  Till the dells alone would hear me,
  Only the deaf fir-trees listen? 
  Not in life is she, my mother,
  She no longer is aboveground;
  She, the golden, cannot hear me,
  ’T is the fir-trees now that hear me,
  ’T is the pine-tops understand me,
  And the birch-crowns full of goodness,
  And the ash-trees now that love me! 
  Small and weak my mother left me,
  Like a lark upon the cliff-top,
  Like a young thrush ’mid the flintstones
  In the guardianship of strangers,
  In the keeping of the stepdame. 
  She would drive the little orphan. 
  Drive the child with none to love him,
  To the cold side of the chimney,
  To the north side of the cottage. 
  Where the wind that felt no pity,
  Bit the boy with none to shield him. 
  Larklike, then, I forth betook me,
  Like a little bird to wander. 
  Silent, o’er the country straying
  Yon and hither, full of sadness. 
  With the winds I made acquaintance
  Felt the will of every tempest. 
  Learned of bitter frost to shiver,
  Learned too well to weep of winter.