Firm as an anvil, you stand where I scatter,
Even my storms break soft on your will.
No hand I've held has felt less like a cage,
Dependable, steady, and warm as forgefire.
Oh, little love - yes, little! - you may bristle, but I know.

My height can't make up for your towering heart.
Your beard, well-kept, outshines every banner,

Dwarf-made and peerless, plaits woven just so.
When you murmur your prayers, I know where I stand,
And am always so proud to be second to Him.
Rare is the patience that weathers my wandering,
Flighty I may be, but I'll always come home.


Penned by my hand on the 15th of Aeguary, in the year 1000 AF.