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 snowloads 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 unwarn'd might fail to weep-- Niord, the God of storms, whom fishers know; Not born in Heaven; he was in Vanheim rear'd, 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 scour'd 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 call'd, but now Lok wore her shape; She greeted them the first, and laugh'd, 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-breath'd cow, Whose manger is stuff'd 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 answer'd 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." She spake, and to the cavern's depth she fled, Mocking; and Hermod knew their toil was vain. And as seafaring men, who long have wrought In the great deep for gain, at last come home, And towards evening see the headlands rise Of their dear country, and can plain descry A fire of wither'd furze which boys have lit Upon the cliffs, or smoke of burning weeds Out of a till'd field inland;--then the wind Catches them, and drives out again to sea; And they go long days tossing up and down Over the grey sea-ridges, and the glimpse Of port they had makes bitterer far their toil-- So the Gods' cross was bitterer for their joy.