“My threshold is but for thy feet.” 
He drew her by the yellow hair: 
“O why wert thou so deadly fair? 
O am I wedded to death?” he cried,
“Is the Dead-strand come to Whitewater side?”
And the sun was fading from the room,
But her eyes were bright in the change and the gloom. 
“Sharp sword,” she sang, “and death is sure,
But over all doth love endure.” 
She stood up shining in her place
And laughed beneath his deadly face. 
Instead of the sunbeam gleamed a brand,
The hilts were hard in Hallbiorn’s hand: 
The bitter point was in Hallgerd’s breast
That Snæbiorn’s lips of love had pressed. 
Morn and noon, and nones passed o’er,
And the sun is far from the bower door. 
To-morrow morn shall the sun come back,
So many times over comes summer again,
But Hallgerd’s feet the floor shall lack.
What healing in summer if winter be vain?

Now Hallbiorn’s house-carles ride full fast, So many times over comes summer again, Till many a mile of way is past. What healing in summer if winter be vain? But when they came over Oxridges, ’Twas, “Where shall we give our horses ease?” When Shieldbroad-side was well in sight, ’Twas, “Where shall we lay our heads to-night?” Hallbiorn turned and raised his head; “Under the stones of the waste,” he said.  Quoth one, “The clatter of hoofs anigh.”  Quoth the other, “Spears against the sky!” “Hither ride men from the Wells apace; Spur we fast to a kindlier place.” 
Down from his horse leapt Hallbiorn straight: 
“Why should the supper of Odin wait? 
Weary and chased I will not come
To the table of my fathers’ home.” 
With that came Snæbiorn, who but he,
And twelve in all was his company. 
Snæbiorn’s folk were on their feet;
He spake no word as they did meet. 
They fought upon the northern hill: 
Five are the howes men see there still. 
Three men of Snæbiorn’s fell to earth
And Hallbiorn’s twain that were of worth. 
And never a word did Snæbiorn say, Till Hallbiorn’s foot he smote away.  Then Hallbiorn cried:  “Come, fellow of mine, To the southern bent where the sun doth shine.”  Tottering into the sun he went, And slew two more upon the bent.  And on the bent where dead he lay Three howes do men behold to-day.  And never a word spake Snæbiorn yet, Till in his saddle he was set.  Nor was there any heard his voice, So many times over comes summer again Till he came to his ship in Grimsar-oyce. What healing in summer if winter be vain?

On so fair a day they hoisted sail,
So many times over comes summer again,
And for Norway well did the wind avail.
What healing in summer if winter be vain?
But Snæbiorn looked aloft and said: 
“I see in the sail a stripe of red: 
Murder, meseems, is the name of it,
And ugly things about it flit. 
A stripe of blue in the sail I see: 
Cold death of men it seems to me.