He hath not heart for harping, nor in ring having
Nor winsomeness to wife, nor world’s delight
Nor any whit else save the wave’s slash
Yet longing comes upon him to fare forth on the water.
Bosque taketh blossom, cometh beauty of berries,
Fields of fairness, land fares brisker,
All this admonisheth man eager of mood,
The heart turns to travel so that he then thinks
On flood ways to be far departing
Cuckoo calleth with gloomy crying,
He singeth summerward, bodeth sorrow.
The bitter heart’s blood.