rune

Read for LibriVox.org by Rumpled Poetry.

Hear the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heaven, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells, Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they bring out the delight From the molten-golden notes, And all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells In the future! How it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells—brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night, how they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, they can only shriek, shriek, out of tune, in a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, in a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, leaping higher, higher, higher, with a desperate desire, and a resolute endeavor now—now to sit or never, by the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour on the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, by the twanging, and the clanging, how the danger ebbs and flows; yet the ear distinctly tells, in the jangling, and the wrangling, how the danger sinks and swells, by the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells—of the bells—of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells—in the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells—iron bells! What a world of solemn thought their monody compels! In the silence of the night, how we shiver with affright at the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats from the rust within their throats is a groan.

And the people—ah, the people! They that dwell up in the steeple, all alone, and who, tolling, tolling, tolling, in that muffled monotone, feel a glory in so rolling on the human heart a stone—they are neither man nor woman—they are neither brute nor human—they are Ghouls: and their King it is who tolls; and he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls a pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells with the pæan of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, to the pæan of the bells—of the bells—keeping time, time, time, in a sort of Runic rhyme, to the throbbing of the bells—of the bells, bells, bells—to the sobbing of the bells; keeping time, time, time, as he knells, knells, knells, in a happy Runic rhyme, to the rolling of the bells—of the bells, bells, bells—to the tolling of the bells—of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells—to the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

End of poem.

This recording is in the public domain.

Not four.

Runes, here's your off-season marching orders.

You get four.

Think about that, though.

Like if you did the best 10 teams in the history of college baseball, Record-wise, the fact they went, what, 60-10 or 12 or whatever and won the regular season, the tournament, and the whole thing.

You'd have to put them in the mix of that conversation.

Is that fair, Runes?

Yeah.

Section 2, The Bells.

Hear the sledges with the bells— Silver bells! What a world of merriment their melody foretells! How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, In the icy air of night! While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens, seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells Golden bells! What a world of happiness their harmony foretells! Through the balmy air of night How they ring out their delight! From the molten-golden notes, and all in tune, What a liquid ditty floats To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats On the moon! Oh, from out the sounding cells, What a gush of euphony voluminously wells! How it swells! How it dwells On the Future! how it tells Of the rapture that impels To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells! Hear the loud alarum bells— Brazen bells! What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells! In the startled ear of night How they scream out their affright! Too much horrified to speak, They can only shriek, shriek, Out of tune, In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire, In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire, Leaping higher, higher, higher, With a desperate desire, And a resolute endeavor Now—now to sit or never, By the side of the pale-faced moon.

Oh, the bells, bells, bells! What a tale their terror tells Of Despair! How they clang, and clash, and roar! What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air! Yet the ear it fully knows, By the twanging, And the clanging, How the danger ebbs and flows; Yet the ear distinctly tells, In the jangling, And the wrangling, How the danger sinks and swells, By the sinking or the swelling in the anger of the bells, Of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— In the clamor and the clangor of the bells! Hear the tolling of the bells— Iron bells! What a world of solemn thought Their monody compels! In the silence of the night, How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone! For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan.

And the people—ah, the people— They that dwell up in the steeple, All alone, And who toiling, toiling, toiling, In that muffled monotone, Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart a stone— They are neither man nor woman— They are neither brute nor human— They are ghouls: And their king it is who tolls; And he rolls, rolls, rolls, rolls A pæan from the bells! And his merry bosom swells With the pæan of the bells! And he dances, and he yells; Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the pæan of the bells— Of the bells: Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the throbbing of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells— To the sobbing of the bells; Keeping time, time, time, As he knells, knells, knells, In a happy Runic rhyme, To the rolling of the bells— Of the bells, bells, bells— To the tolling of the bells, Of the bells, bells, bells, Bells, bells, bells— To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.

End of section two, The Bells.

Section three of Miscellaneous Poe.

And that's a very, very conservative estimate.

So if we find new things, it could completely turn the, the history of the Runic script on its head.

And that's something I find really fascinating about this subject is, unlike most of medieval studies, [laughs] there are new things being found, um, particularly with, with metal detecting.

But stuff is popping up all the time, you know.

But I, I guess that brings me to my next question, which is what can we know about tribal culture and trade networks using these runes and the finds that we do have that you're allowed to talk about at any rate? [laughs]

The...

I think the bracteates are a very good example of what we can learn from the Runic tradition about cultural contacts.

So one of the earliest inscriptions in England is from East Anglia, from very close to the coast, and it's, uh, a bracteate, uh, one of these gold amulets that was probably made in the Netherlands or in southern Denmark and imported to England, probably with the first settlers.

I don't know if Bully Ray has had any comments about it, but very, very strong presence, tall, great physique, but still WWE felt no good.

Number seven, Anya Roon, R-U-N-E.

Her real name is Arika Demia, not dementia.

She was brought in earlier this year in 2026.