And long to see thee wounded.
Combed and washed
Should every wise man be,
And well fed in the morning,
For it is uncertain
Where he may be at night;
It is bad to hurry ahead of one’s luck.
“One morning a raven came to the lighthole at Brekka, and croaked loudly; then Hromund sang—
Outside I hear in the morning twilight
The dark blue swan[[423]] of the sweat of the wound-thorn[[424]] croak;