The drenched acre of earth first fathered me out of its frozen womb.
My mind knows I was not knit from woollen fleece or twined from hair.
No weft was woven in me, no warp I have, no throngs of threads sang my tissue,
no whirring shuttle snaked my flesh nor loom-bar laced me with its blows.
Worms' weird skill did not weave me, spinning beauty in their golden webs.
Yet all over earth I am honoured, held in heroes high esteem.
Thought-skilled men, thoroughly wise in words, will guess this garment's name.

-Anglosaxon riddle