There each of the nights might
see a horrible wonder,
Fire on flowing water.
None so wise live
Of the children of the people,
that know the depth.
Though the heath stalker
pressed by hounds,
The hart with strong horns
might seek the forest,
Pursued from far off,
he’d first give up life,
His body on the shore,
before he will into it
Hide his head.
That is not a gentle place:
From there surging water
rises up
To dark clouds.
From there wind stirs up
A hateful storm,
until the air becomes mournful,
And the skies weep.
