Classic Poem

A lonely wanderer, wounded with iron,
I am smitten with war-blades, sated with strife,
Worn with the sword-edge; I have seen many battle
Much hazardous fighting, oft without hope
Of comfort or help in the carnage of war
Ere I perish and fall in the fighting of men.
The leavings of hammers, the handwork of smiths,
Batter and bite me, hard-edged and sharp;
The brunt of battle I am doomed to endure.
In all the folk-stead no leech could I find
With wort or simple to heal my wounds;
But day and night with the deadly blows
The marks of the war-blades double and deepen.