and is wrought in man-like wise,
  And the lips are writhed with laughter and bleared are the blinded eyes;
  And it wandereth hither and thither, and searcheth through the grave
  And departeth, leaving nothing, save the dark, rolled wave on wave
  O’er the golden head of Sigurd and the edges of the sword,
  And the world weighs heavy on Sigurd, and the weary curse of the Hoard;
  Him-seemed the grave grew straiter, and his hope of life grew chill,
  And his heart by the Worm was enfolded, and the bonds of the Ancient Ill.

  Then was Sigurd stirred by his glory, and he strove with the swaddling of
       Death;
  He turned in the pit on the highway, and the grave of the Glittering Heath;
  He laughed and smote with the laughter and thrust up over his head. 
  And smote the venom asunder and clave the heart of Dread;
  Then he leapt from the pit and the grave, and the rushing river of blood,
  And fulfilled with the joy of the War-God on the face of earth he stood
  With red sword high uplifted, with wrathful glittering eyes;
  And he laughed at the heavens above him for he saw the sun arise,
  And Sigurd gleamed on the desert, and shone in the new-born light,
  And the wind in his raiment wavered, and all the world was bright.

  But there was the ancient Fafnir, and the Face of Terror lay
  On the huddled folds of the Serpent, that were black and ashen-grey
  In the desert lit by the sun; and those twain looked each on each,
  And forth from the Face of Terror went a sound of dreadful speech: 

  “Child, child, who art thou that hast smitten? bright child, of whence is
       thy birth?”

  “I am called the Wild-thing Glorious, and alone I wend on the earth.”

* * * * *

  “What master hath taught thee of murder?—­Thou hast wasted Fafnir’s day.”

  “I, Sigurd, knew and desired, and the bright sword learned the way.”

* * * * *

  “I am blind, O Strong Compeller, in the bonds of Death and Hell. 
  But thee shall the rattling Gold and the red rings bring unto bane.”

  “Yet the rings mine hand shall scatter, and the earth shall gather again.”

  “Woe, woe! in the days passed over I bore the Helm of Dread,
  I reared the Face of Terror, and the hoarded hate of the Dead: 
  I overcame and was mighty; I was wise and cherished my heart
  In the waste where no man wandered, and the high house builded apart: 
  Till I met thine hand, O Sigurd, and thy might ordained from of old;
  And I fought and fell in the morning, and I die far off from the Gold.”

* * * * *

  Then all sank into silence, and the Son of Sigmund stood
  On the torn and furrowed desert by the pool of Fafnir’s blood,
  And the Serpent lay before him, dead, chilly, dull, and grey;
  And over the Glittering Heath fair shone the sun and the day,
  And a light wind followed the sun and breathed o’er the fateful place,
  As fresh as it furrows the sea-plain or bows the acres’ face.