“For now it is mirk,” said Dyrë.
When daylight appeared, a glove-finger of wool
He found in the boat—such a treasure—
Four skeps it did take to fill it full,
Dyrë uses it for a meal-measure.
Then straight it became a proverb or saw,
Dyrë Vo is the lad to go like Thor
’Gainst Trolls, and such like Feerie.
“Best of all when it’s mirk,” thought Dyrë.
“Very deep, sir,” said the boatman, as I let out my spinning tackle, in the faint hopes of a trout for supper.