No swain shall it view in the clear heaven’s blue,
But his heart in its toils shall be lost;
No goddess, not e’en beauty’s faultless queen,
Such long glossy ringlets shall boast.
Though they now seem dead, let them touch but her head,
Each hair shall the life-moisture fill;
Nor shall malice nor spell henceforward prevail
Sif’s tresses to work aught of ill.
His object attained, Loke no longer remained
’Neath the earth, but straight hied him to Thor,