Like dreamer in the midnight hour, towards Freya’s beechen grove.
Towards Freya’s grove the love-sick god pensive pursued his way:
Its glories at Iduna’s rape became of frost the prey;
The leaves all lay in yellow heaps the wither’d trunks around;
The silver brook, once used to flowers, now flint-stones only found.
And now throughout the grove resounds the tempest’s awful yell!
Scared by the shock, the rain-drops bright from the dry branches fell!
So much had love absorb’d his thoughts, when this the god perceiv’d,
He thought each branch upon the trees, like him enamour’d, griev’d.
The howling of the storm amongst the trees with joy he hailed;