262
A SHEAF GLEANED
Angantyr lifting up the high mound of his tomb
Like a spectre, with eyes without vision that stare,
Rises up and extends forth an arm wan and bare,
Whence the sword iron-hilted drops down in the gloom,
And his white teeth low mutter, 'Now take it, nor spare.'
And while he sinks slowly on the couch of the dead,
And recrosses his arms and earth's glory resigns,
Hervor, brandishing the steel that vibrates and shines,
With her black hair wild streaming, a phantom of dread,
Runs, leaps, disappears in the forest's dark lines.
