Poem

I do not have a title yet for this. Any suggestions would be great! (warning I have been reading a lot of old English Poetry lately...)

How harsh days do but hurry
with fleeting time, which
the children of grindstone sharpened
steal doesth but bring
the perils of war
Death doesth not long terry
but rather leaves a great
feast for the carrion.
Grey shadows, the wolf
which before the dawn
do but mangle the bodies
of those great souls,
Whom with crash of steal
and brake of shield
doth hand over their
lives to the Lord God everlasting
And death, Great King
Knows yet no defeat
For game leaves a few
broken souls for later torment.
When with gloomy call
the grey-haired he doesth groan
For all those brothers
which long journeyed before
to the everlasting hall.
Earthly treasures remain
glory mothed and torn
Death doeths take us all.