The golden grain, hail-stricken on its stalk,
Will never more wave wanton to the sky.
Falk [with an outburst of anguish].
Yes, we two, Svanhild—!
Svanhild.
Hence with hopes that snare!
If you sow falsehood, you must reap despair.
For others true, you say? And do you doubt
That each of them, like us, is sure, alike,
That he’s the man the lightning will not strike,