Years ago, from somewhere I have forgotten, I copied the following: Among the first Anglo-Saxon poems, from the eighth century, is “The Ruin,” a powerful testa

Years ago, from somewhere I have forgotten, I copied the following: Among the first Anglo-Saxon poems, from the eighth century, is “The Ruin,” a powerful testament to the brokenness inherent in civilization. Its opening lines: The masonry is wondrous; fates broke it The courtyard pavements were smashed; the work of giants is decaying... The poem comes from the Exeter Book of Anglo-Saxon poetry and several key lines have been destroyed by damp. So, one of the original poems in the English lyric tradition contains, in its very physical existence, a comment on the fragility of the codex as a mode of transmission. The original poem about a ruin is itself a ruin. Here is another translation: Splendid this rampart is, though fate destroyed it, The city buildings fell apart, the works Of giants crumble. Tumbled are the towers, Ruined the roofs, and broken the barred gate, Frost in the plaster, all the ceilings gape, Torn and collapsed and eaten up by age. And grit holds in its grip, the hard embrace Of earth, the dead departed master-builders, Until a hundred generations now Of people have passed by. Often this wall Stained red and grey with lichen has stood by Surviving storms while kingdoms rose and fell. And now the high curved wall itself has fallen.