Was it the voice of Sigyn? whose sad sound Soft from the deathless hush detached itself, As some pale star from darkness that reveals The heavens in its fall; or but the deeps Of silence speaking to the deeps of night? Sad, sad, and slow, yea slower than sad tears That fall from blinded eyes, her sad words fell:-- "O Love! O Loké! turn on me thine eyes! Thy motionless eyes that woe has changed to stone; That slumber will not seal nor any dream. Yea, I will woo her down; woo Slumber down, From her fair far-off skies, with some old song, The croonéd syllables of some refrain, Sung unto childhood by the mothers of men. Or shall I soothe thine eyes shut with my hair, The fluttered amber of deep curls, until They shall forget their stone stolidity, And sleep creep in between the linéd lids And summon memory and pain away? "Pale, pale thy face, that seems to stain the night With pallor; hueless as the brows of death. So pale, that knew we Death, as mortals know, I'd say that he, mysterious, had laid hands Of talons on thee and had left thee so. So still! and all the night is in my heart. So tired! and sleep is not for thee or me, Never again for our o'erweary limbs! Around, the shadows crouch; vague, obscene shapes, In horrible attitudes; and all the night, Above, below, seems so much choking fog, That clogs my tongue, or with devouring maw Swallows my words and makes them sound far off, Remote, deep down, emboweled of the Earth. And then again it hounds them from my tongue To sound as wildly clamorous as the hills Sound when Earth shakes with armies; men that meet With Berserk fury, shouting, and the hurl And shock of iron spears on iron shields, And all the world is one wild wave of helms, And all the air is one wild wind of swords, On which the wild Valkyries ride and scream. Dread cliffs, dread chasms of rocks howl back my words While yet they touch the tongue to grasp the thought; And all the vermin, huddled in their holes, Creep forth to glare and hiss them back again.