Now Skirnir, eager his zeal to prove,
Down Bifrost urges his course amain,
And, speeding through Hertha’s gloomy grove,
Soon reaches the Giant’s drear domain.
’Twas like the wind blowing o’er the road,
Which gate nor barrier hath power to stop:
’Twas like the blast raging o’er the flood,
Which lashes to foam the billow’s top.
Now Skirnir thought: “Pitch dark is the night,
Brakes, briars, and brambles impede my course: