I’ th’ giants’ orchard, on whose branches grow
Apples of wondrous flavour, three by three,
With tint, like the sun’s purple blush on snow.
“These apples a more powerful juice contain,
Than those thou keepest in thy golden cup.
This liquor rare could once the Asar drain,
All Jotunheim before their arms must stoop.
To hide that precious fruit from the world’s eye
Has been the giants’ constant industry:
Thus have they, to avert the menaced doom,