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Now are Hor's words spoken in the hall, Kind for the kindred of men, Cursed for the kindred of giants: Hail to the speaker, and to him who learns! Profit be his who has them! Hail to them who hearken!

I ween that I hung on the windy tree, Hung there for nights full nine; With the spear I was wounded, and offered I was To Othin, myself to myself, On the tree that none may ever know What root beneath it runs.