Death

:A verse in Dróttkvætt meter:

Cloaked by dawn-flame’s downfall,

death shall take my breath-surge;

clad in nothing colder,

keen to rest my breast-drum.

The wound-biter wending

way down oak-tree’s hawk-perch,

carrion-bird’s wine carries

cold dead laments elsewhere. 

Dante R.R.G.