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Description
Busy as you are, do not go yet. Please. Stay with me a moment.

     Study these lines I wrote you when my blood beat.

Learn what life holds for men in these words set in order.

     Looks go. They go. Yours will go as mine did.

What you are now, hurrying past this gravestone,

     I was; and my name was known in every country.

And what I am now, you yourself must come to.

     I looked for the world to be sweet with my heart like a spoiled child's.

Now frail as paper ash and spotted with wet dust

     My blind skull hangs from the spine which is all that the worms left.

Of the nerves my imagination made such demands on.

     Worry about your soul, not about your body,

For the will to love remains when the starved nerves stiffen.

     Why clear yourself new fields? You can see as I do

How I must rest content with this pocket of clay here.

     Why do you long, moist-eyed, for the day when your body

Will cuddle in silks died by snails' guts the color of sunset

     When vermin mangles touch skin as moths do soft damask?

Flowers blacked with cold when the wind turns ugly;

     And the flesh on your bones will bruise when death blows the will out.

Will you do me a good turn for this song I have made you?

     Will you please say, "Christ, be good to your dead servant"?

No man break into this tomb God cedes me to lie in,

     Waiting for it to explode, that bugle beyond where the stars end,

Reveille rousing the dead, and that shout from the mustering angels:

     "No matter how deep you may lie, get up from the dirt now;

Your great Judge is at hand amidst troops without number."

     Alcuin was my name. I was always in love with wisdom.

Say a prayer for me that you mean when you read this writing.

                     ~BEOWULF, Abbot Alcuin (735-804)

Description
Busy as you are, do not go yet. Please. Stay with me a moment.

     Study these lines I wrote you when my blood beat.

Learn what life holds for men in these words set in order.

     Looks go. They go. Yours will go as mine did.

What you are now, hurrying past this gravestone,

     I was; and my name was known in every country.

And what I am now, you yourself must come to.

     I looked for the world to be sweet with my heart like a spoiled child's.

Now frail as paper ash and spotted with wet dust

     My blind skull hangs from the spine which is all that the worms left.

Of the nerves my imagination made such demands on.

     Worry about your soul, not about your body,

For the will to love remains when the starved nerves stiffen.

     Why clear yourself new fields? You can see as I do

How I must rest content with this pocket of clay here.

     Why do you long, moist-eyed, for the day when your body

Will cuddle in silks died by snails' guts the color of sunset

     When vermin mangles touch skin as moths do soft damask?

Flowers blacked with cold when the wind turns ugly;

     And the flesh on your bones will bruise when death blows the will out.

Will you do me a good turn for this song I have made you?

     Will you please say, "Christ, be good to your dead servant"?

No man break into this tomb God cedes me to lie in,

     Waiting for it to explode, that bugle beyond where the stars end,

Reveille rousing the dead, and that shout from the mustering angels:

     "No matter how deep you may lie, get up from the dirt now;

Your great Judge is at hand amidst troops without number."

     Alcuin was my name. I was always in love with wisdom.

Say a prayer for me that you mean when you read this writing.

                     ~BEOWULF, Abbot Alcuin (735-804)