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the legend of skadi.
"I am nine times too weary of cavern and cliff;
All the pine-groves of Norway I 'd give for my skiff.
The twilight, that buries the white, solemn hills,
My blood like the coming of Ragnarök chills."
All the pine-groves of Norway I 'd give for my skiff.
The twilight, that buries the white, solemn hills,
My blood like the coming of Ragnarök chills."
"Three days and three nights are too many for me
To waste on the ocean, O dull Njörd, and thee!"—
And Skadi has buckled her snow-sandals on,
And back to her mountains alone she has gone.
To waste on the ocean, O dull Njörd, and thee!"—
And Skadi has buckled her snow-sandals on,
And back to her mountains alone she has gone.
The red, climbing sunrise, the rosy-fringed mist,
Stealing up from the valley, her clear cheek have kissed;
And over the hill-tops the frosty blue sky
With the joy of its welcome rekindles her eye.
Stealing up from the valley, her clear cheek have kissed;
And over the hill-tops the frosty blue sky
With the joy of its welcome rekindles her eye.
She tightens her bowstring, she bounds from the rock;
The elves in their caverns her merry voice mock;
The waterfall's rush to the tarn by the crag,
And the leap of the reindeer, behind her both lag.
The elves in their caverns her merry voice mock;
The waterfall's rush to the tarn by the crag,
And the leap of the reindeer, behind her both lag.
But still, as she chases the wolf and the boar,
By sounds she is startled, like surf on the shore,
By sounds she is startled, like surf on the shore,
