Then upright by the bed of the Niblungs for a moment doth she stand,
    And the blade flasheth bright in the chamber, but no more they hinder
      her hand
    Than if a God were smiting to rend the world in two: 
    Then dulled are the glittering edges, and the bitter point cleaves
      through
    The breast of the all-wise Brynhild, and her feet from the pavement
      fail,
    And the sigh of her heart is hearkened mid the hush of the maidens’
      wail. 
    Chill, deep is the fear upon them, but they bring her aback to the bed,
    And her hand is yet on the hilts, and sidelong droopeth her head.

    Then there cometh a cry from withoutward, and Gunnar’s hurrying feet
    Are swift on the kingly threshold, and Brynhild’s blood they meet. 
    Low down o’er the bed he hangeth and hearkeneth for her word,
    And her heavy lids are opened to look on the Niblung lord,
    And she saith: 
                “I pray thee a prayer, the last word in the world I speak,
    That ye bear me forth to Sigurd, and the hand my hand would seek;
    The bale for the dead is builded, it is wrought full wide on the plain,
    It is raised for Earth’s best Helper, and thereon is room for twain: 
    Ye have hung the shields about it, and the Southland hangings spread,
    There lay me adown by Sigurd and my head beside his head: 
    But ere ye leave us sleeping, draw his Wrath from out the sheath,
    And lay that Light of the Branstock, and the blade that frighted deaths
    Betwixt my side and Sigurd’s, as it lay that while agone,
    When once in one bed together we twain were laid alone: 
    How then when the flames flare upward may I be left behind? 
    How then may the road he wendeth be hard for my feet to find? 
    How then in the gates of Valhall may the door of the gleaming ring
    Clash to on the heel of Sigurd, as I follow on my king?”

    Then she raised herself on her elbow, but again her eyelids sank,
    And the wound by the sword-edge whispered, as her heart from the iron
      shrank,
    And she moaned:  “O lives of man-folk, for unrest all overlong
    By the Father were ye fashioned; and what hope amendeth a wrong? 
    Now at last, O my beloved, all is gone; none else is near,
    Through the ages of all ages, never sundered, shall we wear.”

    Scarce more than a sigh was the word, as back on the bed she fell,
    Nor was there need in the chamber of the passing of Brynhild to tell;
    And no more their lamentation might the maidens hold aback,
    But the sound of their bitter mourning was as if red-handed wrack
    Ran wild in the Burg of the Niblungs, and the fire were master of all.