“The hour draws nigh,” said Sigurd, “for I know of the speech and the
      word
    That is kind in the air to hearken, and is worse than the whetted
      sword. 
    Now is Brynhild sore encompassed by a tide of measureless woe,
    And amidst and anear, as I see it, she seeth the death-star grow. 
    Yet belike it is, O Gudrun, that thy will herein shall be done;
    But now depart, I pray thee, and leave thy lord alone: 
    Heavy and hard shall it be, for a season shall it endure,
    But the grief and the sorrow shall perish, and the fame of the Gods
      is sure.”

    Yet she sat by his side and spake not, and a while at his glory she
      gazed,
    For his face o’erpassed the brightness that so long the folk had
      praised,
    And she durst not question or touch him, and at last she rose from
      his side,
    And gat her away soft-footed, and wandered far and wide
    Through the house and the Burg of the Niblungs; yet durst she never
      more
    Go look on the Niblung Brethren as they sat in their harness of war.

    But the morn to the noon hath fallen, and the afternoon to the eve,
    And the beams of the westering sun the Niblung wall-stones leave,
    And yet sitteth Sigurd alone; then the sun sinketh down into night,
    And the moon ariseth in heaven, and the earth is pale with her light: 
    And there sitteth Sigurd the Volsung in the gold and the harness of war
    That was won from the heart-wise Fafnir and the guarded Treasure of
      yore,
    But pale is the Helm of Aweing, and wan are the ruddy rings: 
    So whiles in a city forsaken ye see the shapes of kings,
    And the lips that the carvers wrought, while their words were
      remembered and known,
    And the brows men trembled to look on in the long-enduring stone,
    And their hands once unforgotten, and their breasts, the walls of war;
    But now are they hidden marvels to the wise and the master of lore,
    And he nameth them not, nor knoweth, and their fear is faded away.

    E’en so sat Sigurd the Volsung till the night waxed moonless and grey,
    Till the chill dawn spread o’er the lowland, and the purple fells grew
      clear
    In the cloudless summer dawn-dusk, and the sun was drawing anear: 
    Then reddened the Burg of the Niblungs, and the walls of the ancient
      folk,
    And a wind came down from the mountains and the living things awoke
    And cried out for need and rejoicing; till, lo, the rim of the sun
    Showed over the eastern ridges, and the new day was begun;
    And the beams rose higher and higher, and white grew the Niblung wall,
    And the spears on the ramparts glistered and the windows blazed withal,
    And the sunlight flooded the courts, and throughout the chambers
      streamed: 
    Then bright as the flames