And the bellows they blew till the furnace ’gan roar,
And the fire flamed on high for the wind.
And they struck with their sledge-hammers stroke on stroke,
That the sparks from the skin flew on high,
But never a word good or bad spake Loke,
Though foul malice lurked in his eye.
The thunderer far distant, with sorrow he thought
On all he’d engaged to obtain,
And, as summer-breeze fickle, now anxiously sought
To render the dwarfs’ labor vain.