meet,
    And thou knowest the good from the evil:  few days are over and gone
    Since my father was old in the world ere the deed of my making was won;
    But Sigmund the Volsung he was, full ripe of years and of fame;
    And I, who have never beheld him, am Sigurd called of name;
    Too young in the world am I waxen that a tale thereof should be told,
    And yet have I slain the Serpent, and gotten the Ancient Gold,
    And broken the bonds of the weary, and ridden the Wavering Fire. 
    But short is mine errand to tell, and the end of my desire: 
    For peace I bear unto thee, and to all the kings of the earth,
    Who bear the sword aright, and are crowned with the crown of worth;
    But unpeace to the lords of evil, and the battle and the death;
    And the edge of the sword to the traitor, and the flame to the
      slanderous breath: 
    And I would that the loving were loved, and I would that the weary
      should sleep,
    And that man should hearken to man, and that he that soweth should
      reap. 
    Now wide in the world would I fare, to seek the dwellings of Kings,
    For with them would I do and undo, and be heart of their warfarings;
    So I thank thee, lord, for thy bidding, and here in thine house will
      I bide,
    And learn of thine ancient wisdom till forth to the field we ride.”

    Glad then was the murmur of folk, for the tidings had gone forth,
    And its breath had been borne to the Niblungs, and the tale of
      Sigurd’s worth.

    But the King said:  “Welcome, Sigurd, full fair of deed and of word! 
    And here mayst thou win thee fellows for the days of the peace and
      the sword;
    For not lone in the world have I lived, but sons from my loins have
      sprung,
    Whose deeds with the rhyme are mingled, and their names with the
      people’s tongue.”

    Then he took his hand in his hand, and into the hall they passed,
    And great shouts of salutation to the cloudy roof were cast;
    And they rang from the glassy pillars, and the Gods on the hangings
      stirred,
    And afar the clustering eagles on the golden roof-ridge heard,
    And cried out on the Sword of the Branstock as they cried in the
      other days: 
    Then the harps rang out in the hall, and men sang in Sigurd’s praise;
    And a flood of great remembrance, and the tales of the years gone by
    Swept over the soul of Sigurd, and his fathers seemed anigh;
    And he looked to the cloudy hall-roof, and anigh seemed Odin the Goth,
    And the Valkyrs holding the garland, and the crown of love and of
      troth;
    And his soul swells up exalted, and he deems that high above,
    In the glorious house of the heavens, are the outstretched hands of
      his love;
    And she stoops to the cloudy feast-hall, and the wavering wind is
      her voice,
    And her odorous breath floats round him, as she bids her King rejoice.