But rests in cold indifference.
Her round arms, form’d alike to prove
The contests or of war or love;
Her swan-like bosom’s faultless curve
Would Bragi’s golden lyre deserve.
Smaller though Freya’s hand, not snow
Than Sifs, fresh fallen on mountain brow,
More white, nor softer virgin down
Of Eyder-fowl, nor breast of swan.
Two pencill’d brows of darkest brown