Icy rings
As wreaths gleam
‘Round the waist of him,
The Dreaded and Sublime King.
What joy it is to peer
Into eyes of coal
As mirror-lake
Of soulful tale
In divine lore,
In truthful hope.
What boon it is to sing
The sagas of the warriors’ spleen
Wrought into halls of conquest
By iron art,
By lead and fire.
