From the fiords white and gray,
Where the nights are fire and the sun is pale,
And snow-mists veil the day.
“Farewell” sang the bards in the crystal halls,
To the barque of Thorfin fair.
“We still will sing at the festivals
Of the land of the golden air;
Of the land of the lily and rose,
The land where the sun-birds sing;
Oh, happy the bride of the North that goes