A score good leagues or so.’
‘Score leagues!’ cried Hymir: ‘why,
Art mad! mark’st not the storm!
E’en now I can descry
Where lies fell Midgard’s worm.’
‘And what care I for worm!’
Cried Thor, the fisher good:
‘The bleak north’s bitterest storm
But fans my heated blood—
I love the tempest’s roar—