Who the metal like flax on her spinning wheel laid,
Nor tarried her task to begin.
So she span and span, and the gold thread ran
Into hair, though Loke thought it a pity;
She span and sang to the sledge-hammer’s clang
This strange, wild spinning-wheel ditty;
Henceforward her hair shall the tall Sif wear,
Hanging loose down her white neck behind;
By no envious braid shall it captive be made,
But in native grace float in the wind.