My dress is silver, shimmering gray,
Spun with a blaze of garnets. I craze
Most men: rash fools I run on a road
Of rage, and cage quiet determined men.
Why they love me -- lured from mind,
Stripped of strength -- remains a riddle.
If they still praise my sinuous power
When they raise high the dearest treasure,
They will find through reckless habit
Dark woe in the dregs of pleasure.
"Riddle 9." A Feast of Creatures: Anglo-Saxon Riddle-Songs, translated with commentary by Craig Williamson. London: Scolar Press; University of Pennsylvania Press, c1982.
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