“It is good, my sister,” said Hogni, “to abide in the harness of war
    When the days and the days are changing, and the Norns’ feet stand by
      the door. 
    I will nowise go in unto Brynhild, lest the evil tide grow worse. 
    For what woman will bear the sorrow and burden her soul with a curse
    If she may escape it unbidden? and there are words that wound
    Far worse than the bitter edges, though wise in the air they sound. 
    Bide thou and behold things fated!  Hast thou learned how men may teach
    The stars in their ordered courses, or lead the Norns with speech?”

    She stood and trembled before him, nor durst she long behold
    The silent face of Hogni and the far-seeing eyes and cold. 
    So she gat her forth from before him, and Sigurd her husband she
      sought,
    And the speech on her lips was ready, till the chill fear made it
      nought;
    For apart and alone was he sitting in all his war-gear clad,
    And Fafnir’s Helm of Aweing, and Regin’s Wrath he had,
    And over the breast of Sigurd was the Hauberk all of gold
    That hath not the like in the heavens nor has earth of its fellow told.

    But he set her down beside him and said:  “What fearest thou then? 
    What terror strideth in daylight mid the peace of the Niblung men?”

    She cried:  “The Helm and the Sword, and the golden guard of thy
      breast!”

    “So oft, O wife,” said Sigurd, “is a war-king clad the best
    When the peril quickens before him, and on either hand is doubt;
    Thus men wreathe round the beaker whence the wine shall be soon
      poured out. 
    But hope thou not overmuch, for the end is not today;
    And fear thou little indeed, for not long shall the sword delay: 
    But speak, O daughter of Giuki, for thy lips scarce held the word
    Ere thou sawest the gleam of my hauberk and the edge of the ancient
      Sword,
    The Light that hath lain in the Branstock, the hope of the Volsung
      tree,
    The Sunderer, the Deliverer, the torch of days to be.”

    She sighed; for her heart was heavy for the days but a while agone,
    When the death was little dreamed of, and the joy was lightly won;
    And her soul was bitter with anger for the day that Brynhild had led
    To the heart of the Niblung glory:  but fear thrust on, and she said: 
    “O my lord, O Sigurd the mighty, an evil day is this,
    A chill, an untimely hour for the blooming of our bliss! 
    Go in to my sister Brynhild, and tell her of very sooth
    That my heart for her sorrow sorrows, and is sick for woe and ruth.”