Yet a while;—­it was but an hour and the moon was hung so high,
    As it seemed that the silent night-tide would never change and die;
    But lo, how the dawn comes stealing o’er the mountains of the east,
    And dim grows Atli’s roof-sun o’er yestereven’s feast;
    Dim yet in the treasure-houses lie the ancient heaps of gold,
    But slowly come the colours to the Dwarf-wrought rings of old: 
    Yet a while; and the day-light lingers:  yea, yea, is it darker than
      erst? 
    Hath the day into night-tide drifted, the day by the twilight nursed? 
    Are the clouds in the house of King Atli?  Or what shines brighter that
      morn,
    In helms and shields of the ancient, and swords by dead kings borne? 
    Have the heavens come down to Atli?  Hath his house been lifted on high,
    Lest the pride of the triumphing World-King should fade in the world
      and die?

    Lo, lo, in the hall of the Murder where the white-armed Gudrun stands,
    Aloft by the kingly high-seat, and nought empty are her hands;
    For the litten brand she beareth, and the grinded war-sword bare: 
    Still she stands for a little season till day groweth white and fair
    Without the garth of King Atli; but within, a wavering cloud
    Rolls, hiding the roof and the roof-sun; then she stirreth and crieth
      aloud: 

    “Alone was I yestereven:  and alone in the night I lay,
    And I thought on the ancient fathers, and longed for the dawning of
      day: 
    Then I rose from the bed of the Eastlands; to the Holy Hearth I went;
    And lo, how the brands were abiding the hand of mine intent! 
    Then I caught them up with wisdom, with care I bore them forth,
    And I laid them amidst of the treasures and dear things of uttermost
      worth;
    ’Neath the fair-dight benches I laid them and the carven work of the
      hall;
    I was wise, as the handmaid arising ere the sun hath litten the wall,
    When the brands on the hearth she lighteth that her work betimes she
      may win,
    That her hand may toil unchidden, and her day with praise begin. 
    —­Begin, O day of Atli!  O ancient sun, arise,
    With the light that I loved aforetime, with the light that blessed
      mine eyes,
    When I woke and looked on Sigurd, and he rose on the world and shone! 
    And we twain in the world together! and I dwelt with Sigurd alone.”

    She spake; and the sun clomb over the Eastland mountains’ rim
    And shone through the door of Atli and the smoky hall and dim,
    But the fire roared up against him, and the smoke-cloud rolled aloof,
    And back and down from the timbers, and the carven work of the roof;
    There the ancient trees were crackling as the red flames shot aloft
    From the heart of the gathering smoke-cloud; there the far-fetched
      hangings soft,
    The gold and the sea-born purple, shrank up in a moment of space,
    And the walls of Atli trembled, and the ancient golden place.