From harpings and sagas and mirth of the town,
Great Gisli, the chieftain strode merrily down.
His ruddy beard stretch'd in the loom of the wind,
His shade like a dusky God striding behind.
Gylfag, his true hound, to his heel glided near,
Sharp-fang'd, lank and red as a blood-rusted spear.
As crests of the green bergs flame white in the sky,
The town on its sharp hill shone brightly and high.
In fjords roared the ice below the dumb stroke
Of the Sun's red hammer rose blue mist like smoke.
It clung to the black pines, and clung to the bay—
The galleys of Gisli grew ghosts of the day.
It followed the sharp wings of swans, as they rose—
It fell to the wide jaws of swift riven floes.
It tam'd the wild shriek of the eagle—grew dull
The cries, in its foldings, of osprey and gull.
"Arouse thee, bold wind," shouted Gisli "and drive
"Floe and Berg out to sea as bees from a hive.
"Chase this woman-lipped haze at top of thy speed,
"It cloys to the soul as the tongue cloys with mead!