“O Foe of the Gods,” said Sigurd, “wouldst thou hide the evil thing,
  And the curse that is greater than thou, lest death end thy labouring,
  Lest the night should come upon thee amidst thy toil for nought? 
  It is me, it is me that thou fearest, if indeed I know thy thought;
  Yea me, who would utterly light the face of all good and ill,
  If not with the fruitful beams that the summer shall fulfill,
  Then at least with the world a-blazing, and the glare of the grinded sword.

* * * * *

  “I have hearkened not nor heeded the words of thy fear and thy ruth: 
  Thou hast told thy tale and thy longing, and thereto I hearkened well:—­
  Let it lead thee up to heaven, let it lead thee down to hell,
  The deed shall be done tomorrow:  thou shalt have that measureless Gold,
  And devour the garnered wisdom that blessed thy realm of old,
  That hath lain unspent and begrudged in the very heart of hate: 
  With the blood and the might of thy brother thine hunger shalt thou sate;
  And this deed shall be mine and thine; but take heed for what followeth
       then! 
  Let each do after his kind!  I shall do the deeds of men;
  I shall harvest the field of their sowing, in the bed of their strewing
       shall sleep;
  To them shall I give my life-days, to the Gods my glory to keep. 
  But them with the wealth and the wisdom that the best of the Gods might
       praise,
  If thou shall indeed excel them and become the hope of the days,
  Then me in turn hast thou conquered, and I shall be in turn
  Thy fashioned brand of the battle through good and evil to burn,
  Or the flame that sleeps in thy stithy for the gathered winds to blow,
  When thou listest to do and undo and thine uttermost cunning to show. 
  But indeed I wot full surely that thou shalt follow thy kind;
  And for all that cometh after, the Norns shall loose and bind.”

  Then his bridle-reins rang sweetly, and the warding-walls of death,
  And Regin drew up to him, and the Wrath sang loud in the sheath,
  And forth from that trench in the mountains by the westward way they ride;
  And little and black goes Regin by the golden Volsung’s side;

* * * * *

  So ever they wended upward, and the midnight hour was o’er,
  And the stars grew pale and paler, and failed from the heaven’s floor,
  And the moon was a long while dead, but where was the promise of day? 
  No change came over the darkness, no streak of the dawning grey;
  No sound of the wind’s uprising adown the night there ran: 
  It was blind as the Gaping Gulf ere the first of the worlds began.