O the golden gates of the garden of roses!
They are bright and beautiful, tall and barred.
There is no strong wall round the rosy garden;
From gate to gate runs a woven thread,
Yellow and silken and fine, for ward.
Who snaps the ward of the rosy garden
With his hand and his foot shall he pay, 'tis said.
Laurin who rules the garden of roses
Is an elf-king, therefore he has no soul.
(The good priest shudders at Laurin's name.)