Then was Brynhild silent a little, and forth from the Niblung hall
    Came the sound of the laughter of men to the garth by the nook of the
      wall;
    And a wind arose in the twilight, and sounds came up from the plain
    Of kine in the dew-fall wandering, and of oxen loosed from the wain,
    And the songs of folk free-hearted, and the river rushing by;
    And the heart of Brynhild hearkened and she cried with a grievous cry: 

    “O Sigurd, O my Sigurd, we twain were one, time was,
    And the wide world lay before us and the deeds to bring to pass! 
    And now I am nought for helping, and no helping mayst thou give;
    And all is marred and evil, and why hast thou heart to live?”

    She held her peace for anguish, and forth from the hall there came
    The shouts of the joyous Niblungs, and the sound of Sigurd’s name: 
    And Brynhild turned from Gudrun, and lifted her voice and said: 
    “O evil house of the Niblungs, may the day of your woe and your dread
    Be meted with the measure of the guile ye dealt to me,
    When ye sealed your hearts from pity and forgat my misery!”

    And she turned to flee from the garden; but her gown-lap Gudrun caught,
    And cried:  “Thou evil woman, for thee were the Niblungs wrought,
    And their day of the fame past telling, that they should heed thy life? 
    Dear house of the Niblung glory, fair bloom of the warriors’ strife,
    How well shalt thou stand triumphant, when all we lie in the earth
    For a little while remembered in the story of thy worth!”

    But the lap of her linen raiment did Brynhild tear from her hold
    And spake from her mouth brought nigher, and her voice was low and
      cold: 

    “Such pride and comfort in Sigurd henceforward mayst thou find,
    Such joy of his life’s endurance, as thou leav’st me joy behind!”

    But turmoil of wrath wrapt Gudrun, that she knew not the day from the
      night,
    And she hardened her heart for evil as the warriors when they smite: 
    And she cried:  “Thou filled with murder, my love shall blossom and
      bloom
    When thou liest in the hell forgotten! smite thence from the deedless
      gloom,
    Smite thence at the lovely Sigurd, from the dark without a day! 
    Let the hand that death hath loosened the King of Glory slay!”

    So died her words of anger, and her latter speech none heard,
    Save the wind of the early night-tide and the leaves by its wandering
      stirred;
    For amidst her wrath and her blindness was the hapless Brynhild gone: 
    And she fled from the Burg of the Niblungs and cried to the night
      alone: