The metal-melter, the smoky-veil’d,
Are appellations given to fire.
And hair of the earth the trees are call’d,
When their branches wave in their green attire.”
Fresh questions the boatman grave proposed,
But the answers of Skirnir never fail.
Of day and of night the names he posed,
And those bestow’d on corn and ale.
Then Harbard said: “Ne’er met my eyes
A man with wisdom so profound: