I chase the stars down-sloping to the west.”
“Lady, sweet lady, let me guard thee thither!
The wave is treacherous, shivered oft by storm,
And many an ambushed wind quick-bringeth cloudy weather,
And towering thunder-mist with secret lightnings warm;
Many unseemly rocks love human prey,
And devious currents often thrust astray;
A thousand maelstroms sing harsh Runic rhyme,
And sturdy gales beleaguer any time.
Let us be twin in hope, in weal or wo,—