The Story of Sigurd the Volsung and the Fall of the Niblungs. William Morris

is a gift of my giving:—heed nought where thou mayst ride:

       For I have seen thy fathers in a shining house abide,

       And on earth they thought of its threshold, and the gifts I had to give;

       Nor prayed for a little longer, and a little longer to live."

      Then forth he strode to the mountains, and fain was Sigurd now

       To ask him many a matter: but dim did his bright shape grow,

       As a man from the litten doorway fades into the dusk of night;

       And the sun in the high-noon shone, and the world was exceeding bright.

      So Sigurd turned to the river and stood by the wave-wet strand,

       And the grey horse swims to his feet and lightly leaps aland,

       And the youngling looks upon him, and deems none beside him good.

       And indeed, as tells the story, he was come of Sleipnir's blood,

       The tireless horse of Odin: cloud-grey he was of hue,

       And it seemed as Sigurd backed him that Sigmund's son he knew,

       So glad he went beneath him. Then the youngling's song arose

       As he brushed through the noon-tide blossoms of Gripir's mighty close,

       Then he singeth the song of Greyfell, the horse that Odin gave,

       Who swam through the sweeping river, and back through the toppling wave.

Regin telleth Sigurd of his kindred, and of the Gold that was accursed from ancient days.