She said: "Thou shalt never unsay it, and thy heart is mine indeed: Thou shalt bear my love in thy bosom as thou helpest the earth-folk's need: Thou shalt wake to it dawning by dawning; thou shalt sleep and it shall not be strange: There is none shall thrust between us till our earthly lives shall change. Ah, my love shall fare as a banner in the hand of thy renown, In the arms of thy fame accomplished shall it lie when we lay us adown. O deathless fame of Sigurd! O glory of my lord! O birth of the happy Brynhild to the measureless reward!"
So they sat as the day grew dimmer, and they looked on days to come, And the fair tale speeding onward, and the glories of their home; And they saw their crowned children and the kindred of the kings, And deeds in the world arising and the day of better things; All the earthly exaltation, till their pomp of life should be passed, And soft on the bosom of God their love should be laid at the last.
But when words have a long while failed them, and the night is nigh at hand, They arise in the golden glimmer, and apart and anigh they stand: Then Brynhild stooped to the Wrath, and touched the hilts of the sword, Ere she wound her arms round Sigurd and cherished the lips of her lord: Then sweet were the tears of Brynhild, and fast and fast they fell, And the love that Sigurd uttered, what speech of song may tell?
But he turned and departed from her, and her feet on the threshold abode As he went through the pillared feast-hall, and forth to the night he rode: So he turned toward the dwelling of Heimir and his love and his fame seemed one, And all full-well accomplished, what deeds soe'er were done: And the love that endureth for ever, and the endless hope he bore. As he faced the change of Heaven and the chance of worldly war.
What aileth the men of Lymdale, that their house is all astir? Shall the hunt be up in the forest, or hath the shield-hung fir Brought war from the outer ocean to their fish-belovèd stream? Or have the piping shepherds beheld the war-gear gleam Adown the flowery sheep-dales? or betwixt the poplars grey Have the neat-herds seen the banners of the drivers of the prey?
No, the forest shall be empty of the Lymdale men this morn, And the wells of the Lymdale river have heard no battle-horn, Nor the sheep in the flowery hollows seen any painted shield, And nought from the fear of warriors bide the neat-herds from the field; Yet full is the hall of Heimir with eager earls of war, And the long-locked happy shepherds are gathered round the door, And the smith has left his stithy, and the wife has left her rock, And the bright thrums hang unwinded by the maiden's weaving-stock: And there is the wife and the maiden, the elder and the boy; And scarce shall you tell what moves them, much sorrow or great joy.