Adam Oehlenschläger,
The Gods of the North: an epic poem
“ But it was not Iduna’s form, that Frey long’d to embrace,But thee, o Gerda! scion fair of Jotun’s swarthy race. As thus he sat immers’d in thought, sudden his eye survey’dHis sister Freya; there she stood in linen white array’d,With silver ringlets, like a dame in the decline of life,Who on her beauty’s vanish’d spring looks back with inward grief. She heard her brother’s plaintive sigh. “Unfortunate,” she said:“Why didst thou Hlidskialf’s tower ascend? hath magic turn’d thy head? ”
