So lay I there among the rest,
held fast beneath a stone,
with no joy known in life,
nor death to call mine own.

I could not ask, nor could I grieve,
when up there came a wave;
a shadow bent its stare on me,
from wings that drummed the grave.

“Both,” cried the ravens, “both,”
the many that had come;
they settled heavy on my chest,
and beat there like a drum.

From out their claws hung rags,
red shreds of broken flesh;
and from their bitter breath there rose
the old cold reek of death.

Five times they laughed in choir,
then spread their wings and fled;
when from the deep a hoarse voice rose,
like ravens over dead:

“So?” said the maiden young,
with pearl-white eyes aglow;
silver were her brows and hair,
her face was scarred with woe.

No pity warmed her look,
yet she reached with moon-lit hand.
Silent, as one who knew of strife,
above me she did stand.

The Weaver in the woven web,
where all the weavers be;
the fate she wrought, now wound and cast,
was laid at last for me.

“Comest thou?” she softly asked.
Then through my body came
a flood, like blood down running hills,
that woke my limbs to flame.

My arms I lifted up again,
though all beside lay still;
what thanks can mortal tongue return
for joy beyond its will?

It seemed I knew her once,
and knew her even yet;
yet knew her not, while she knew me,
as one knows what is set.

She knew me well, and knew
the thread her fingers caught;
she knew me better than myself,
whose fate her hands had wrought.

“So, come.” Her raven-cloak
rose wide and hid the sky;
her byrnie dimmed with forest-red,
where dusk and branches lie.

Behind her sat another maid,
upon a stone set high;
with wayward smile she pointed down,
and cast her glance awry.

Her hair lit bush and brake,
gold tears fell from her brow;
to Folkvang, whence she first had come,
she led me homeward now.

No nearer had I been to home,
nor farther from my will;
a longing woke beneath my ribs,
but lay unspoken still.

Before that longing knew its name,
the Golden turned her head;
she smiled upon the Bloody One,
and this was what she said:

“Thine thread, Verdandi.”
The Valkyrie bent low;
her weary shoulders bowed,
and watched my longing grow.

A small smile drew across her mouth;
she leaned where I did lie.
Her bright eyes, now with green made clear,
burned close above mine eye.

Then round us swept her feathered cloak,
the mountains reeled around;
the ravens croaked one final cry,
a harsh and hollow sound:

“Neither one, neither one,”
the black birds cried the same.
The Cold One warmed against my breast,
and with her I was claimed.

Not Here