My raiment rustles and raises a song,
Sings without tiring. I touch not the earth
But wander a stranger over stream and wood.
VIII. A Nightingale
With my mouth I am master of many a language;
Cunningly I carol; I discourse full oft
In melodious lays; loud do I call,
Ever mindful of melody, undiminished in voice.
5 An old evening-scop, to earls I bring
Solace in cities; when, skillful in music,