And she heard the flock of the women, as back to the chamber they drew,
And the name of Sigurd entered, and the body of Sigurd was come,
And it was as if Sigmund were living and she still in her lovely home;
Of all folk of the world was she well, and a soul fulfilled of rest
As alone in the chamber she wakened and Sigurd cherished her breast.

But men feast in the merry noontide, and glad is the April green
That a Volsung looks on the sunlight and the night and the darkness
have been.
Earls think of marvellous stories, and along the golden strings
Flit words of banded brethren and names of war-fain Kings:
All the days of the deeds of Sigmund who was born so long ago;
All deeds of the glorious Signy, and her tarrying-tide of woe;
Men tell of the years of Volsung, and how long agone it was
That he changed his life in battle, and brought the tale to pass:
Then goeth the word of the Giants, and the world seems waxen old
For the dimness of King Rerir and the tale of his warfare told:
Yet unhushed are the singers' voices, nor yet the harp-strings cease
While yet is left a rumour of the mirk-wood's broken peace,
And of Sigi the very ancient, and the unnamed Sons of God,
Of the days when the Lords of Heaven full oft the world-ways trod.

So stilleth the wind in the even and the sun sinks down in the sea,
And men abide the morrow and the Victory yet to be.


_Sigurd getteth to him the horse that is called Greyfell._

Now waxeth the son of Sigmund in might and goodliness,
And soft the days win over, and all men his beauty bless.