This Shape we fear is here i’ the summer shine,—
He blights the fruit we pluck, the wreath we twine,
And soon he leaves us stark.
“He haunts us fleetly on the snowy steep,
He finds us as we sow and as we reap,
He creepeth in to slay us as we sleep,—
Ah, Death makes all things dark.”
Bright Balder cried, “Curst be this thing
Which will not let man rest,
Slaying with swift and cruel sting