  The world-rocking roar of the thunder, the red lightning’s death-dealing flash, The wind that rends mountains asunder, the tempest’s sharp, blood-bringing lash, Beneficent silvery rivers that stream from the dream-laden moon, And crimsoning fire that delivers bound life at the sun’s freeing noon; These swell like a marvellous ocean, all throbbing and leaping and strong, O Bragi, in thy magic potion of pain and of sweetness and song! The life-blood of Kvasir was taken, sharp heart-seeking knives made him bleed, But still shall his spirit awaken in singers who drink of thy mead. The honey from forests of flowers, poured out as the milk from the kine, It flows through the undying hours from lips that are wet with thy wine. O Bragi, dear master of singing, song-thirsty I beg for thy dole! To thy knees, a suppliant clinging, I pray for a draught from thy bowl. |
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