"Where is the horse? Where is the man who rode him? Where is the sharer of treasure? Where now is the house of feasting, and where are the songs sung there? Alas, o golden cup! Alas, o proud prince! Alas, o burnished warrior! All this has passed, dark under the veil of night, as though it had never been."
-The Wanderer (traditional Anglo-Saxon)

The House of Bjorn

Fattened cattle grazed the lanes,
The streams were swollen by spring rains,
The fields were gold with ripened grain,
All in the house of Bjorn.

High the gabled rafters soared,
Hewn from ash each post and board;
A hall to host a mighty lord,
Such was the house of Bjorn.

Good ale and mead and wine were brewed,
And men would drink and share good food;
Proud warriors ne'er to be subdued,
All in the house of Bjorn.

Weeds grow where once the grain was sown;
For many years cold winds have blown
Past fallen towers all alone;
All in the house of Bjorn.

Of old the sacred trees were sundered;
Shrines were burned and graves were plundered;
Now crosses stand in muted wonder,
All in the house of Bjorn.