Sigurd slayeth Fafnir the Serpent.

    Nought Sigurd seeth of Regin, and nought he heeds of him,
    As in watchful might and glory he strides the desert dim,
    And behind him paceth Greyfell; but he deems the time o’erlong
    Till he meet the great gold-warden, the over-lord of wrong.

    So he wendeth midst the silence through the measureless desert place,
    And beholds the countless glitter with wise and steadfast face,
    Till him-seems in a little season that the flames grown somewhat wan,
    And a grey thing glimmers before him, and becomes a mighty man. 
    One-eyed and ancient-seeming, in cloud-grey raiment clad;
    A friendly man and glorious, and of visage smiling-glad: 
    Then content in Sigurd groweth because of his majesty,
    And he heareth him speak in the desert as the wind of the winter sea: 

    “Hail Sigurd!  Give me thy greeting ere thy ways alone thou wend!”

    Said Sigurd:  “Hail!  I greet thee, my friend and my fathers’ friend.”

    “Now whither away,” said the elder, “with the Steed and the ancient
      Sword?”

    “To the greedy house,” said Sigurd, “and the King of the Heavy Hoard.”

    “Wilt thou smite, O Sigurd, Sigurd?” said the ancient mighty-one.

    “Yea, yea, I shall smite,” said the Volsung, “save the Gods have slain
      the sun.”

    “What wise wilt thou smite,” said the elder? “lest the dark devour thy
      day?”

    “Thou hast praised the sword,” said the child, “and the sword shall
      find a way.”

    “Be learned of me,” said the Wise-one, “for I was the first of thy
      folk.”

    Said the child:  “I shall do thy bidding, and for thee shall I strike
      the stroke.”

    Spake the Wise-one:  “Thus shalt thou do when thou wendest hence alone: 
    Thou shalt find a path in the desert, and a road in the world of stone;
    It is smooth and deep and hollow, but the rain hath riven it not,
    And the wild wind hath not worn it, for it is but Fafnir’s slot,
    Whereby he wends to the water and the fathomless pool of old,
    When his heart in the dawn is weary, and he loathes the ancient Gold: 
    There think of the great and the fathers, and bare the whetted Wrath,
    And dig a pit in the highway, and a grave in the Serpent’s path: 
    Lie thou therein, O Sigurd, and thine hope from the glooming hide,
    And be as the dead for a season, and the living light abide! 
    And so shall thine heart avail thee, and thy mighty fateful hand,
    And the Light that lay in the Branstock, the well-beloved brand.”

    Said the child:  “I shall do thy bidding, and for thee shall I strike
      the stroke;
    For I love thee, friend of my fathers, Wise Heart of the holy folk.”