I saw for Baldr, the blessed god,
Ygg's dearest son, what doom is hidden:
Green and glossy, there grew aloft,
The trees among, the mistletoe.
The slender-seeming sapling became
A fell weapon when flung by Hoth;
But Baldr's brother was born full soon:
But one night old slew him Óthin's son.
Neither cleansed his hands nor combed his hair
Till Baldr's slayer he sent to Hel;
But Frigg did weep in Fensalir
The fateful deed: know ye further, or how?
A captive lies in the kettle-grove,
Like to lawless Loki in shape;
There sits Sigyn, full sad in mind,
By her fettered mate: know ye further, or how?
From the east there flows through fester-dales,
A stream hight Slíth, filled with swords and knives.
Waist-deep wade there through waters swift
Mainsworn men and murderous,
Eke those who betrayed a trusted friend's wife;
There gnaws Níthhogg naked corpses,
There the Wolf rends men -- wit ye more, or how?
Stood in the north on the Nitha Fields
A dwelling golden which the dwarfs did own;
Another stood on Ókólnir,
That etin's beer-hall, who is Brimir hight.
A hall she saw, from the sun so far,
On Ná Strand's shore: turn north its doors;
Drops of poison drip through the louver,
It walls are clad with coiling snakes.
In the east sat the old one, in the Iron-Woods,
Bred there the bad brood of Fenrir;
Will one of these, worse than they all,
The sun swallow, in seeming a wolf.
He feeds on the flesh of fallen men,
With their blood sullies the seats of the gods;
Will grow swart the sunshine in summers thereafter,
The weather, woe-bringing: do ye wit more, or how?