Written for the occassion of Baron Sean and Baroness Elizabeth's descent from the throne of Storvik, January 20, A.S. XLI.
Grief, grey-eyed, grows great at leave-taking,
The end of things always brings sighs;
Remember we do days drifted past us.
Treasures long lost, lamented their going.
All things that were fair fix in our minds
Hall-joys we had, horns of good mead;
Brave warband we were winning glory and gold
But put off sorrow, sink grief into the sea.
All things end - from endings spring starts.
Departing one place, putting oars to water,
Means also the start of a sea-borne voyage.
Who shall wonder what wyrd may come,
What war-songs will sound, what swords will clash,
What cries of mirth will mix with laughter
In gold-hung hall, on grey-foamed sea,
Wheresoever our travels take us in coming days?
Where stout hearts go, good will follow.
