The First Love

by Olaf Haraldsson

From my hill I followed
The faring, when on horseback,
Lightly did the lovely
Let herself be outborne;
And her shiny eyes
Did all my joy bereave me.
Known it is, to no one
Naught of sorrows happen.

Formerly in fairness,
Filled with golden blossoms,
Trees stood green and trembling
Tall above the jarldom.
Soon their leaves grew sallow,
Silently, in Russia.
Only gold now garlands
Ingigerdha’s forehead.