(Old English Poem)
When the wind drops, and weather is fair,
When the bright holy gem of heaven shines
In a clear sky, and restless waters
Stand still, and every storm is put
To sleep from the sky, and from the south
The warm sun
Makes sweet light for men,
Then in the branches the Phoenix begins
To make his nest. Great need he has
To see if he can turn old age quickly
Through fire of knowledge back into life
And be young again. Then from far and near
He collects and carries the sweetest
Of delightful herbs and forest blossoms
To his dwelling, each noble fragrance
Of the spicy herbs which the World-King,
The father of everything upon earth, has made
So they contain every kind of essence,
Sweet under the sky. He himself carries
These bright treasures into his tree.
There this wild bird builds his house,
Bright and delightful, and there lodges
In its upper room and in that leafy shade
Surrounds his body and feathers
On every side with holy fragrances
And the noblest of the earth.
And eager there he sits. When the sun,
The gem of the summer sky, the hottest,
Pierces the shadows and, tracing its course,
Lights up the world, then his house
Grows hot in the heat of the bright sky,
Herbs grow warm, his pleasant house begins
To emit sweet odors, then both bird and nest
Burst into flames in the embrace of fire
The pyre is lit. Flame rolls over
His house of flesh, and fiercely clinging
Yellow fire feeds on the burning Phoenix,
Old with many years. The fire devours
His mortal body – life is on a journey
From that fated breast. The funeral flames
Set flesh and bone on fire, but after a while
After his ashes cool, he once more begins
Back to Phoenix