But o’er snow-clad fields meandering down,
It ceased to flow, and it turn’d to stone.
GESTUR.
Of a white-hair’d female I’ve been told,
Who well knows how white balls to mould;
Yet hath this female never a hand:
This riddle, pray! dost thou understand?
SKIRNIR.
’Tis the long-neck’d swan with its colour white,
Who loves to sail on the lake so bright: