Classic Poem

The warrior's look is like a thunderous rain-cloud's,
when, armed with mail, he seeks the lap of battle.
Be thou victorious with unwounded body: so let the
thickness of thy mail protect thee.
With bow let us win kine, with bow the battle,
with bow be victors in our hot encounters.
The bow brings grief and sorrow to the foeman:
armed with the bow may we subdue all regions.
Close to his ear, as fain to speak, she presses, holding
her well-loved friend in her embraces.
Strained on the bow, she whispers like a woman—
this bowstring that preserves us in the combat.
These, meeting like a woman and her lover, bear,
mother-like, their child upon their bosom.
May the two bow-ends, starting swift asunder, scatter,
in unison, the foes who hate us.
Her tooth a deer, dressed in an eagle's feathers,
bound with cow-hide, launched forth, she flieth onward.
There where the heroes speed hither and thither,
there may the arrows shelter and protect us.