Long Sigurd gazeth upon her, and slow he sayeth again: 
  “I know thy will, my mother; of all the sons of men,
  Of all the Kings unwedded, and the kindred of the great,
  It is meet that my brother Gunnar should ride to her golden gate.”

* * * * *

  In the May-morn riseth Gunnar with fair face and gleaming eyes,
  And he calleth on Sigurd his brother, and he calleth on Hogni the wise: 
  “Today shall we fare to the wooing, for so doth our mother bid;
  We shall go to gaze on marvels, and things from the King-folk hid.”

  So they do on the best of their war-gear, and their steeds are dight for the
       road,
  And forth to the sun neigheth Greyfell as he neighed ’neath the Golden Load: 
  But or ever they leap to the saddle, while yet in the door they stand,
  Thereto cometh Grimhild the wise-wife, and on each head layeth her hand,
  As she saith:  “Be mighty and wise, as the kings that came before! 
  For they knew of the ways of the Gods, and the craft of the Gods they bore: 
  And they knew how the shapes of man-folk are the very images
  Of the hearts that abide within them, and they knew of the shaping of these. 
  Be wise and mighty, O Kings, and look in mine heart and behold
  The craft that prevaileth o’er semblance, and the treasured wisdom of old! 
  I hallow you thus for the day, and I hallow you thus for the night,
  And I hallow you thus for the dawning with my fathers’ hidden might. 
  Go now, for ye bear my will while I sit in the hall and spin;
  And tonight shall be the weaving, and tomorn the web shall ye win.”

  So they leap to the saddles aloft, and they ride and speak no word,
  But the hills and the dales are awakened by the clink of the sheathed sword: 
  None looks in the face of the other, but the earth and the heavens gaze,
  And behold those kings of battle ride down the dusty ways.

  So they come to the Waste of Lymdale when the afternoon is begun,
  And afar they see the flame-blink on the grey sky under the sun: 
  And they spur and speak no word, and no man to his fellow will turn;
  But they see the hills draw upward and the earth beginning to burn: 
  And they ride, and the eve is coming, and the sun hangs low o’er the earth,
  And the red flame roars up to it from the midst of the desert’s dearth. 
  None turns or speaks to his brother, but the Wrath gleams bare and red,
  And blood-red is the Helm of Aweing on the golden Sigurd’s head,
  And bare is the blade of Gunnar, and the first of the three he rides,
  And the wavering wall is before him and the golden sun it hides.