I know I hung on the windswept tree,
Swung there for nine long nights,
Wounded by my own blade,
Bloodied for Odin,
Myself an offering to myself,
Bound to the tree,
That no man knows,
Whither the roots of it run.
None gave me bread,
None gave me drink,
Down to the deepest depths I peered,
Until I spied the runes,
With a roaring cry I seized them up,
Then dizzy and fainting, I fell.
Well-being I won,
And wisdom too,
I gew and took joy in my growth,
From a word to a word,
I was led to a word,
From a deed to another deed.
Taken from 'The Peotic Edda' (circa AD 1200)
