Goddess of drizzle, driving your big
cartloads of mist across my fields! Send me some sun and I’ll sacrifice
my cow — my wife — my Christianity! Shadow Baldur, by my tent,
bursts with reeking juices. Thor throws in his increment,
opening heaven’s sluices. I sat by the Sog one morning when sea-cold north winds blew,
looking on lands with hardly a living thing in view. But soon the blessed sun rose, sweeping the clouds away,
and worlds on worlds of creatures woke to the newborn day. Among them billions of blackflies blotted the sun in murk
and swirled in swarms round Þórður who swatted as if berserk.