“Woe worth the while!” said Glaumvor, “then I talk with the dead
      indeed: 
    And why must I tarry behind thee afar from the Niblungs’ Need?”

    He said:  “Thou wert heavy-hearted last night for the parting-tide;
    And alone in the dreamy country thy soul would needs abide,
    And see not the King that loves thee, nor remember the might of his
      hand;
    So thou falledst a prey unholpen to the lies of the dreamy land.”

    “Ah, would they were lies,” said Glaumvor, “for not the worst was this: 
    There thou wert in the holy high-seat mid the heart of the Niblung
      bliss,
    And a sword was borne into our midmost, and its point and its edge
      were red,
    And at either end the wood-wolves howled out in the day of dread;
    With that sword wert thou smitten, O Gunnar, and the sharp point
      pierced thee through. 
    And the kin were all departed, and no face of man I knew: 
    Then I strove to flee and might not; for day grew dark and strange,
    And no moonrise and no morning the eyeless mirk would change.”

    “Such are dreams of the night,” said Gunnar, “that lovers oft perplex,
    When the sundering hour is coming with the cares that entangle and vex. 
    Yet if there be more, fair woman, when a king speaks loving words,
    May I cast back words of anger, and the threat of grinded swords?”

    “O yet wouldst thou tarry,” said Glaumvor, “in the fair sun-lighted
      day! 
    Nor give thy wife to another, nor cast thy kingdom away.”

    “Of what king of the people,” said Gunnar, “hast thou known it written
      or told,
    That the word was born in the even which the morrow should withhold?”

    “Alas, alas!” said Glaumvor, “then all is over and done! 
    For I dreamed of the hall of the Niblungs at the setting of the sun,
    How dead women came in thither no worse than queens arrayed,
    Who passed by the earls of the Niblungs, and their hands on thy
      gown-skirt laid,
    And hailed thee fair for their fellow, and bade thee come to their
      hall. 
    O bethink thee, King of the Niblungs, what tidings shall befall!”

    “Yea, shall they befall?” said Gunnar, “then who am I to strive
    Against the change of my life-days, while the Gods on high are alive? 
    I shall ride as my heart would have me; let the Gods bestir them then,
    And raise up another people in the stead of the Niblung men: 
    But at home shalt thou sit, King’s Daughter, in the keeping of the
      Fates,
    And be blithe with the men of thy people and the guest within thy
      gates,
    Till thou know of our glad returning to the holy house and dear
    Or the fall of Giuki’s children, and a tale that all shall hear. 
    Arise and do on gladness, lest the clouds roll on and lower
    O’er the heavy hearts of the people in the Niblungs’ parting hour.”