Yew the onwald             older than Etins
In the year's winter       her winsome limbs
Are green with leaves,     loaded with berries,
Bright red fruits          frought with Wod,
Whose needles bestow       strange dreams, or death;
Whose wood is matchless    for making bows,
Whose roots are eagre      to reach into howes.
Among her limbs            laden with worlds,
Gallows bourne Óðinn       goes where He will,
Looking into everything,   lowest and highest,
Above, where the eagle,    ever spreads wings,
Below, where Nidhogg,      harmful, lies gnawing.
Ever-living trunk,         eldest of tree-kin,
Awesome steed              that Allfather tamed
When a gift to ravens      on gallows twisting,
He beheld the runes:       that bole holds all.
Waxing and waning          the welkin's crescent,
In branches green          though gripped by ice,
Silvers snow-land          in the snake's pain,
When the Rime-hunter,      rune-wise Ullr
Bender of Wyrd,            and  bow of stave-wood,
Notches the dart           that need fletched:
He eyes an elk,            ends its life,
on the branches it killed, the buck roasts, singeing.