User:Walkeraj
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Shield was still thriving when his time came and he crossed over into the Lord's keeping. His warrior band did what he bade them when he laid down the law among the Danes: they shouldered him out to the sea's flood, the chief they revered who had long ruled them. A ring-whorled prow rode in the harbour, ice-clad, outbound, a craft for a prince. They stretched their beloved lord in his boat, lait out by the mast, amidships, the great ring-giver. Far-fetched treasures were piled upon him, and precious gear. I never hear before of a ship so well furbished with battle tackle, bladed weapons and coats of mail. The massed treasure was loaded on top of him: it would travel far on out into the ocean's sway. They decked his body no less bountifully with offerings than those first ones did who cast him away when he was a child and launched him alone over the waves. And they set a gold standard up high above his head and let him drift to wind and tide, bewailing him and mourning their loss. No man can tell, no wise man in hall or weathered veteran knows for certain who salvaged that load.
The funeral of King Scyld Scefing. (From Beowulf; Seamus Heaney translation)
I live in Alaska. It's cold.
