Lord of the Plains of Trembling, Master of Bonds-men— Thor, 
Where are you sleeping, son of Earth, while the men go down to the war? 
Are the Giants slain and the Giants' Bane laid by, with its battles o'er? 

Do you sit by Sif and listen, O Thor the Thunderer, 
While she tunes her harp to a drowsy rhyme of woes and wars that were? 
Are the swords and slings forgotten things for love of the songs of her? 

Yet she is a God's own daughter, and the wild blood's in her, too — 
She has watched the young lives spilling, and trodden them down like dew: 
Does she not long for the seagull's song, and the ships in the midsea blue? 

Awake, O Sif, arise, O Sif, and bid thy lord up-stand, 
Draw close the belt about him, set Miolnir in his hand — 
Bid him rise and smite for Odin's right and the sake of Odin's land. 

For over the sleep of Bragi the fearless wild bees hum, 
And Frigga listens at her loom for steps that never come: 
And an ended story is Odin's glory, and the mouth of Mimir's dumb. 

Up, Thor, for Odin's honour: up, Sif, for the Thunderer's! 
Tho' Sigurd sleep at Brynhild's side, let sleep be his and hers! 
Open tho' late is Valhall gate, and the sleeping fire it stirs. 

Sing, Sif, till the heroes hear thee — and rise, and northward go 
Till the Warder wakes on Bifrost bridge and Balder wakes below; 
Till the Warder wakes and the sunrise breaks the frozen heart of the snow. 

Sing, Sif, till the ears of Odin hear thee, until Hel's door 
Be opened wide for Balder, and Frigga's watch be o'er — 
Sing, Gold-Hair, sing until Glasir ring with the steps of Tyr and Thor. 

My heart is open again and sea flows in,
It shall fill with a summer of mists and winds and clouds and waves breaking,
Of gull-wings over the green tide, of the surf's drenching din,
Of sudden horizon-sails that come and vanish, phantom-thin,
Of arching sapphire skies, deep and unaching.

I shall lie on the rocks just over the weeds that drape
The clear sea-pools, where birth and death in sunny ooze are teeming,
Where the crab in quest of booty sidles about, a sullen shape,
Where the snail creeps and the mussel sleeps with wary valves agape,
Where life is too grotesque to be but seeming.

And the swallow shall weave my dreams with threads of flight,
A shuttle with silver breast across the warp of the waves gliding;
And an isle far out shall be a beam in the loom of my delight,
And the pattern of every dream shall be a rapture bathed in light—
Its evanescence a beauty most abiding.

And the sunsets shall give sadness all its due.
They shall stain the sands and trouble the tides with all the ache of sorrow.
They shall bleed and die with a beauty of meaning old yet ever new,
They shall burn with all the hunger for things that hearts have failed to do,
They shall whisper of a gold that none can borrow.

And the stars shall come and build a bridge of fire
For the moon to cross the boundless sea, with never a fear of sinking.
They shall teach me of the magic things of life never to tire,
And how to renew, when it is low, the lamp of my desire—
And how to hope, in the darkest deeps of thinking.