“Then the rain grew less, and one corner of the veil of clouds was raised, And as from the broidered covering gleams out the shoulder white Of the bed-mate of the warrior when on his wedding night He layeth his hand to the linen; so, down there in the west Gleamed out the naked heaven:  but the wrath rose up in my breast, And the sword in my hand rose with it, and I leaped and hewed at the Hun; And from him too flared the war-flame, and the blades danced bright in the sun Come back to the earth for a little before the ending of day.

“There then with all that was in him did the Hun play out the play, Till he fell, and left me tottering, and I turned my feet to wend To the place of the mound of the mighty, the gate of the way without end.  And there thou wert.  How was it, thou Chooser of the Slain, Did I die in thine arms, and thereafter did thy mouth-kiss wake me again?”

Ere the last sound of his voice was done she turned and kissed him; and then she said; “Never hadst thou a fear and thine heart is full of hardihood.”

Then he said: 

“’Tis the hardy heart, beloved, that keepeth me alive, As the king-leek in the garden by the rain and the sun doth thrive, So I thrive by the praise of the people; it is blent with my drink and my meat; As I slumber in the night-tide it laps me soft and sweet; And through the chamber window when I waken in the morn With the wind of the sun’s arising from the meadow is it borne And biddeth me remember that yet I live on earth:  Then I rise and my might is with me, and fills my heart with mirth, As I think of the praise of the people; and all this joy I win By the deeds that my heart commandeth and the hope that lieth therein.”

“Yea,” she said, “but day runneth ever on the heels of day, and there are many and many days; and betwixt them do they carry eld.”

“Yet art thou no older than in days bygone,” said he.  “Is it so, O Daughter of the Gods, that thou wert never born, but wert from before the framing of the mountains, from the beginning of all things?”

But she said: 

   “Nay, nay; I began, I was born; although it may be indeed
   That not on the hills of the earth I sprang from the godhead’s seed. 
   And e’en as my birth and my waxing shall be my waning and end. 
   But thou on many an errand, to many a field dost wend
   Where the bow at adventure bended, or the fleeing dastard’s spear
   Oft lulleth the mirth of the mighty.  Now me thou dost not fear,
   Yet fear with me, beloved, for the mighty Maid I fear;
   And Doom is her name, and full often she maketh me afraid
   And even now meseemeth on my life her hand is laid.”

But he laughed and said: 

“In what land is she abiding?  Is she near or far away?  Will she draw up close beside me in the press of the battle play?  And if then I may not smite her ’midst the warriors of the field With the pale blade of my fathers, will she bide the shove of my shield?”

But sadly she sang in answer: