Loke sat and thought, till his dark eyes gleam
With joy at the deed he’d done;
When Sif looked into the crystal stream,
Her courage was well-nigh gone
For never again her soft amber hair
Shall she braid with her hands of snow;
From the hateful image she turned in despair,
And hot tears began to flow.
In a cavern’s mouth, like a crafty fox,
Loke sat ’neath the tall pine’s shade,