Gods can help her, none of the days,
    If he turn his face from her sorrow, and wend on his lonely ways. 
    But she sees the change in his eyen, and her queenly grief is stirred,
    And the shame in her bosom riseth at the long unspoken word,
    And again with the speech she striveth; but swift is the thought in
      his heart
    To slay her trouble for ever, and thrust her shame apart. 
    And he saith: 
                  “O Maid of the Niblungs, thou art weary-faced this eve: 
    Nay, put thy trouble from thee, lest the shielded warriors grieve! 
    Or tell me what hath been done, or what deed have men forborne,
    That here mid the warriors’ joyance thy life-joy lieth forlorn? 
    For so may the high Gods help me, as nought so much I would,
    As that round thine head this even might flit unmingled good!”

He seeth the love in her eyen, and the life that is tangled in his,
And the heart cries out within him, and man’s hope of earthly bliss;
And again would he spare her the speech, as she strives with her

    longing sore.

    “Here are glad men about us, and a joyous folk of war. 
    And they that have loved thee for long, and they that have cherished
      mine heart;
    But we twain alone are woeful, as sad folk sitting apart. 
    Ah, if I thy soul might gladden! if thy lips might give me peace! 
    Then belike were we gladdest of all; for I love thee more than these. 
    The cup of goodwill that thou bearest, and the greeting thou wouldst
      say,
    Turn these to the cup of thy love, and the words of the
      troth-plighting day;
    The love that endureth for ever, and the never-dying troth,
    To face the Norns’ undoing, and the Gods amid their wrath.”

    Then he taketh the cup and her hands, and she boweth meekly adown,
    Till she feels the arms of Sigurd round her trembling body thrown: 
    A little while she doubteth in the mighty slayer’s arms
    As Sigurd’s love unhoped-for her barren bosom warms;
    A little while she struggleth with the fear of his mighty fame,
    That grows with her hope’s fulfilment; ruth rises with wonder and
      shame;
    For the kindness grows in her soul, as forgotten anguish dies,
    And her heart feels Sigurd’s sorrow in the breast whereon she lies;
    Then the fierce love overwhelms her, and as wax in the fervent fire
    All dies and is forgotten in the sweetness of desire;
    And close she clingeth to Sigurd, as one that hath gotten the best
    And fair things of the world she deemeth, as a place of infinite rest.

    Of the Wedding of Sigurd the Volsung.