I know that I hung

On the windswept tree

For nine full nights,

Wounded with a spear

And given to Odin,

Myself to myself;

On that tree

Of which none know

From what roots it rises.

They did not comfort me with bread,

And not with the drinking horn;

I peered downward,

I grasped the runes,

Screeching I grasped them;

I fell back from there.

I learned nine mighty songs

From the famous son

Of Bolthor, father of Bestla,

And I got a drink

Of the precious mead;

I was sprinkled with Odrerir.

Then I began to be fruitful

And to be fertile,

To grow and to prosper;

One word sought

Another word from me;

One deed sought

Another deed from me.

Havamal

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