So spake the Son of Sigmund, and beheld no man anear,
    And again was the night the midnight, and the twinkling flames shone
      clear
    In the hush of the Glittering Heath; and alone went Sigmund’s son
    Till he came to the road of Fafnir, and the highway worn by one,
    By the drift of the rain unfurrowed, by the windy years unrent,
    And forth from the dark it came, and into the dark it went.

    Great then was the heart of Sigurd, for there in the midmost he stayed,
    And thought of the ancient fathers, and bared the bright blue blade,
    That shone as a fleck of the day-light, and the night was all around. 
    Fair then was the Son of Sigmund as he tolled and laboured the ground;
    Great, mighty he was in his working, and the Glittering Heath he clave,
    And the sword shone blue before him as he dug the pit and the grave: 
    There he hid his hope from the night-tide and lay like one of the dead,
    And wise and wary he bided; and the heavens hung over his head.

    Now the night wanes over Sigurd, and the ruddy rings he sees,
    And his war-gear’s fair adornment, and the God-folk’s images;
    But a voice in the desert ariseth, a sound in the waste has birth,
    A changing tinkle and clatter, as of gold dragged over the earth: 
    O’er Sigurd widens the day-light, and the sound is drawing close,
    And speedier than the trample of speedy feet it goes;
    But ever deemeth Sigurd that the sun brings back the day,
    For the grave grows lighter and lighter and heaven o’erhead is grey.

    But now, how the rattling waxeth till he may not heed nor hark! 
    And the day and the heavens are hidden, and o’er Sigurd rolls the dark,
    As the flood of a pitchy river, and heavy-thick is the air
    With the venom of hate long hoarded, and lies once fashioned fair: 
    Then a wan face comes from the darkness, and is wrought in manlike
      wise,
    And the lips are writhed with laughter and bleared are the blinded
      eyes;
    And it wandereth hither and thither, and searcheth through the grave
    And departeth, leaving nothing, save the dark, rolled wave on wave
    O’er the golden head of Sigurd and the edges of the sword,
    And the world weighs heavy on Sigurd, and the weary curse of the Hoard: 
    Him-seemed the grave grew straiter, and his hope of life grew chill,
    And his heart by the Worm was enfolded, and the bonds of the
      Ancient Ill.

    Then was Sigurd stirred by his glory, and he strove with the swaddling
      of Death;
    He turned in the pit on the highway, and the grave of the Glittering
      Heath;
    He laughed and smote with the laughter and thrust up over his head. 
    And smote the venom asunder, and clave the heart of Dread;
    Then he leapt from the pit and the grave, and the rushing river of