Roll, ye runes!

"Once again the wondrous runes, Golden tablets, shall be found; Mystic runes by Aesir carved, Gods who ruled Fiolnir's line.

Then, taking the astonished Frithiof's arm, Sigurd Ring returned home, where, feeling death draw near, he dedicated himself anew to Odin by carving the Geirs-odd, or sacrificial runes, deeply in his aged chest.

You who love the city for its million pulses, the beat of its great heart, and the terrific symphony of its soul, have you ever picked out from its orchestra the plaintive rune of the deserving poor?

The skies are jewelled all around, The ploughshare snaps in the iron ground, The Finn with face like paper And eyes like a lighted taper Hurls his rough rune At the wintry moon And stamps to mark the tune.

Who, indeed? Out of that leaf-writing, and bark-etching, and later rune, have grown the printed writings of mankind.

Though he is the only one of our early poets who signed his works, the name was never plainly written, but woven into the verses in the form of secret runes, suggesting a modern charade, but more difficult of interpretation until one has found the key to the poet's signature.

"It is the unfinished Rune of the Blackbirds," says Freydis, in a whisper.

"Once again the wondrous runes, Golden tablets, shall be found; Mystic runes by Aesir carved, Gods who ruled Fiolnir's line.

No Orphic rune, no Thracian scroll, Hath magic to avert the morrow; No healing all those medicines brave Apollo to the Asclepiad gave; Pale herbs of comfort in the bowl Of man's wide sorrow.