And bowed her head, and sate with folded hands. Nor did the all-ruling Odin slight her word; Straightway he spake, and thus addressed the gods:-- “Go quickly forth through all the world, and pray All living and unliving things to weep Balder, if haply he may thus be won.” When the gods heard, they straight arose, and took Their horses, and rode forth through all the world. North, south, east, west, they struck, and roamed the world, Entreating all things to weep Balder’s death; And all that lived, and all without life, wept. And as in winter, when the frost breaks up, At winter’s end, before the spring begins, And a warm west-wind blows, and thaw sets in, After an hour a dripping sound is heard In all the forests, and the soft-strewn snow Under the trees is dibbled thick with holes, And from the boughs the snow-loads shuffle down; And, in fields sloping to the south, dark plots Of grass peep out amid surrounding snow, And widen, and the peasant’s heart is glad,-- So through the world was heard a dripping noise Of all things weeping to bring Balder back; And there fell joy upon the gods to hear. But Hermod rode with Niord, whom he took To show him spits and beaches of the sea Far off, where some unwarned might fail to weep,-- Niord, the god of storms, whom fishers know; Not born in heaven, he was in Vanheim reared, With men, but lives a hostage with the gods; He knows each frith, and every rocky creek Fringed with dark pines, and sands where seafowl scream,-- They two scoured every coast, and all things wept. And they rode home together, through the wood Of Jarnvid, which to east of Midgard lies Bordering the giants, where the trees are iron; There in the wood before a cave they came, Where sate, in the cave’s mouth, a skinny hag, Toothless and old; she gibes the passers-by. Thok is she called, but now Lok wore her shape. She greeted them the first, and laughed, and said,-- “Ye gods, good lack, is it so dull in heaven, That ye come pleasuring to Thok’s iron wood? Lovers of change ye are, fastidious sprites. Look, as in some boor’s yard a sweet-breathed cow, Whose manger is stuffed full of good fresh hay, Snuffs at it daintily, and stoops her head To chew the straw, her litter, at her feet,-- So ye grow squeamish, gods, and sniff at heaven!” She spake; but Hermod answered her, and said,-- “Thok, not for gibes we come, we come for tears. Balder is dead, and Hela holds her prey, But will restore if all things give him tears. Begrudge not thine! to all was Balder dear.” Then, with a louder laugh, the hag replied,-- “Is Balder dead? and do ye come for tears? Thok with dry eyes will weep o’er Balder’s pyre. Weep him all other things, if weep they will: I weep him not! let Hela keep her prey.”