Like barren root of thistle pent
In some high ruined battlement.
O’er shady hill, through greenwood round,
I sought this wand; the wand I found.
Odin is wroth, and mighty Thor;
E’en Frey shall now your name abhor.
But ere o’er your ill-fated head
The last dread curse of heaven be spread,
Giants and Thurses far and near,
Suttung’s sons, and ye asas, hear