For they weave a wavering wall, that driveth over the heaven
    The wind that is born within it; nor ever aside is it driven
    By the mightiest wind of the waste, and the rain-flood amidst it is
      nought;
    And no wayfarer’s door and no window the hand of its builder hath
      wrought
    But thereon is the Volsung smiling as its breath uplifteth his hair,
    And his eyes shine bright with its image, and his mail gleams white
      and fair,
    And his war-helm pictures the heavens and the waning stars behind: 
    But his neck is Greyfell stretching to snuff at the flame-wall blind. 
    And his cloudy flank upheaveth, and tinkleth the knitted mail,
    And the gold of the uttermost waters is waxen wan and pale.

    Now Sigurd turns in his saddle, and the hilt of the Wrath he shifts,
    And draws a girth the tighter; then the gathered reins he lifts,
    And crieth aloud to Greyfell, and rides at the wildfire’s heart;
    But the white wall wavers before him and the flame-flood rusheth apart,
    And high o’er his head it riseth, and wide and wild is its roar
    As it beareth the mighty tidings to the very heavenly floor: 
    But he rideth through its roaring as the warrior rides the rye,
    When it bows with the wind of the summer and the hid spears draw anigh
    The white flame licks his raiment and sweeps through Greyfell’s mane,
    And bathes both hands of Sigurd and the hilts of Fafnir’s bane,
    And winds about his war-helm and mingles with his hair,
    But nought his raiment dusketh or dims his glittering gear;
    Then it fails and fades and darkens till all seems left behind,
    And dawn and the blaze is swallowed in mid-mirk stark and blind.

    But forth a little further and a little further on
    And all is calm about him, and he sees the scorched earth wan
    Beneath a glimmering twilight, and he turns his conquering eyes,
    And a ring of pale slaked ashes on the side of Hindfell lies;
    And the world of the waste is beyond it; and all is hushed and grey. 
    And the new-risen moon is a-paleing, and the stars grow faint with day.

    Then Sigurd looked before him and a Shield-burg there he saw,
    A wall of the tiles of Odin wrought clear without a flaw,
    The gold by the silver gleaming, and the ruddy by the white;
    And the blazonings of their glory were done upon them bright,
    As of dear things wrought for the war-lords new come to Odin’s hall. 
    Piled high aloft to the heavens uprose that battle-wall,
    And far o’er the topmost shield-rim for a banner of fame there hung
    A glorious golden buckler; and against the staff it rang
    As the earliest wind of dawning uprose on Hindfell’s face
    And the light from the yellowing east beamed soft on the shielded
      place.