Here they converse and oft in sport around the meadow run,
When cold and sharp the weather feels, and clouds obscure the sun.
Their greatest pleasure is to view each plant and flow’ret grow;
But in this grove no rose is pluck’d; no garlands bind their brow;
The fountain, where they love to bathe, is shielded well from sight
Profane, by a thick hedge; secure they sleep the long long night.
Yet it is whisper’d, when the moon shines forth, their thoughts on love
Will sometimes dwell; oft stolen looks they cast towards Freya’s grove:
But no one may such thoughts indulge, Gefion is so severe,
No male, not e’en a little boy, dare in her grove appear.